Scar Tissue
by CaptainOldDog
Summary: According to my legal papers, I am a grade A schizophrenic psychopathic pyromaniac that should be admitted to a mental hospital, but I didn't end up that way over night. It took years of slowly dissolving to land myself as many mental disorders as I have. Pyro Origins Story.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story that explains Pyro's origins. Pyro is a girl in this story.

Takes place outside of New York.

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_**~If you're going to play with fire, you're going to get burned.**_

As a kid, I dreamed I was a dragon. A mighty beast that breathed fire and with every step it took, the earth shook as though with earthquakes. I dreamed I was a as tall as a skyscraper, towering above all and everyone that ever hurt me, everyone that ever doubted me.

Anyone that would try to get in my way I could send away aflame, and every roadblock in my path I could simply step over or obliterate. I took bites out of the clouds and spat them out hurricanes. I was a ferocious monster and I loved it.

The way I saw it at first, I didn't play with fire, it played with me. It chose _me_ to be the beast and I had no objections.

I created fire storms. I made hell. I set fire to the very earth I walked on. The dream always ended with myself drowning in my own inferno, every time it simply ate me up as if I were paper and turned me to nothing but ashes and bones. The fire reduced to embers and smoke till it smoldered out and the people cheered over what was left of me. A charred body. A skeleton of soot.

It was never a happy dream, but I liked it anyway.

And then I'd wake up.

_**~Fire is the most tolerable third party.**_

_~Henry David Thoreau._

At every age I had a fascination with it, a beautiful flame that dies just as quickly as it destroys, and by eleven I already carried no less than four lighters in my pocket. My favorite joke was when someone would ask me if I had a light.

I'd just give them a quizzical look and present one of my zippos from the depths of my pockets, each one with a different engraving and a different model. They never noticed the details though,and they didn't take the time to admire the flame.

Amateurs, the lot of them. Fucking amateurs.

Lighters weren't the only thing I had. In my dresser drawer I hid my matches and in the back yard I built my fire pit. Every time I used either I got sideways looks, but I usually got those anyway and could almost always brush them off, others not so much but that hardly matters now.

I burned all sorts of stuff in my fire pit. Big things, little things, even dead things. Every summer night I piled it high with trash and doused with with lighter fluid and watched it burn for hours. I watched the way the orange danced. I, I imagined the kids' at school in the fire, and if I listened hard enough, through the crackles I would swear I could hear them taking back every word of insult they throw at me and replacing them with apologies.

No more chink. No more freak. No more witch.

At this point, I realized I was guilty of playing with fire.

On the nights I couldn't use my fire pit I would usually fair fine. I could live without it. But then there were the nights that I absolutely needed to burn something and couldn't. That ate me up. When flicking my wrist around the lighter and burning all the matches in the house wasn't enough is when I thought truly _violent_ thoughts.

Thoughts like what to do to that stupid fourteen year old boy who thought comparing me to squinty eyed pigs was funny. Thoughts like what to do with the twelve year old girl who gave me funny looks for so much as breathing in her direction. Thoughts like what to do with the old man in the candy shop who wouldn't sell to me because he thought I was some kid of a Japanese spy.

I had nights like that a lot more than most knew. Nights like that, that's when I'd dream of dragons.

This when on for quite awhile. After expressing this to my parents, they took me to see some kind of doctor. A doctor for my head. I'd already seen one or two head-doctors but this one was different. He talked to me a lot, asked a lot of questions, and sometimes asked me to talk back. His smiles were as fake as his wig and his questions seemed off topic and accusing. His teeth were perfect.

The man never settled on a diagnosis other than child lunacy. He said I would outgrow it.

_**~You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there.**_

_~Edwin Louis Cole_

At age thirteen I had been in more fist fights then churches. I didn't look for them, but I certainly didn't avoid them. As long as the other kid through the first punch it wasn't like I was game. I was told it was unladylike a thousand times, I was told it was improper a thousand more times, but only the first few times when my mother told me did I really give a damn.

Eventually it just grew old and I blocked out her voice.

I was fumbling with my lighter when they came to me. I had a cigarette in-between my lips, trying and failing to learn how to smoke. I had a couple of of gum packets in my hands. Maybe they wanted some smokes. Or gum. Maybe I simply pissed them off. There was six of them in total, all older and taller, which is no surprise because I was never very tall.

I offered them either a piece of gum or a cig because even thirteen year old me knew that handling the six of them alone was suicide.

The bastards jumped me. One held each arm and another socked me in the gut a few times. I must've picked a fight with at least a couple of them before hand because they had some anger to unleash on me. I absorbed blow after blow but I knew they were holding back. Every fourteen year old boy could hit harder than that.

When I was able to pry an arm free and swing my fist one of their heads is when they got mad. I hit a familiar red head square in the jaw and everybody fell silent as he hit the ground clutching his face as if that would keep the blood in his skull. He screamed something horrible, shouting profanities I hadn't had the chance to use yet. He withered in pain in the dirt.

I might've felt genuinely bad. I might've even felt sorry, but I might also have been patting myself on the back for such a good hit, one that would leave purple bruises on my knuckles for weeks. Good bruises.

"You little shit, yo 'little piece of-" The rest of what he said was to mumbled to make sense. He then gurgles over blood and spit in a way that makes me believe he lost a few teeth.

I learned I should've just taken the beating because now they planned to do more than just take my stuff. I struggled to even hold my feet on the ground as two of the stronger ones hauled me off with grips of iron around my arms. The other boy was yet to get up and one kid decided to staying with them.

I would've given anything for another fifty pounds or another six inches, any size would have helped.

"Ya little shit, ya real jacked up Thomas face."

I spat at him. "Fuckers."

They took me to the fucking reservoir. Some kid took my shoes and another kicked me with his own, the leather making indents in my skin. If I just had the chance to get up, I would've had a chance to defend myself.

They threw me in the water. Cold. Deep. The color of red clay.

I got out.

They threw me back in.

I got out.

They threw me back in.

Someone threw rocks.

And the process repeated for what may have been hours till I finally just sank.

I wasn't a mighty dragon. I wasn't a witch as I was accused to be. I wasn't nearly as bulletproof as I had led myself to believe.

They weren't trying to kill me, not really, they just wanted to cause me pain. When the hour was long past dinner time and when I finally grew tired of trying to get out, I let myself sink to the bottom, and they left. I would've done the same, I wouldn't want to be part of some fucking murder.

The water rushed through my nose and mouth and down my throat, filling me up like a water balloon. Drowning is a far more painful death than most realize, and within seconds I was squirming like a useless rat to reach the surface. My foot was stuck under what felt like a tire.

I tried and tried to pry myself loose and float to the top. It didn't work.

Frantic movements. Garbled crying. Air bubbles. Lashing out at nothing. Decrease in air bubbles.

It hurt.

...

Then I dreamt of dragons and fire, of burning cities and scaly beasts. I dreamt of being able to play with all the fire I wanted and I dreamt my parents were watching and playing with me.

As if, but a sucker can dream, right?

...

I woke in a hospital. Confused. Jumbled. Turns out, to my surprise, at least one of those boys stayed to save me.

But all was not well. No, far from it.

I can still feel the water soaking through my skin. The liquid bursting through to my lungs. No matter how dry I was I still felt saturated, and I couldn't shake the feeling because there are no matches available to teenagers in a hospital.

And, the food is terrible. If i had a choice, that would be the first to go up in smoke.

I had visitors soon, and they brought no matches. This was one of the few times I didn't have a lighter and so my hands itched for the glossy metal of a zippo. I asked my dad if he had brought one and he looked at me as if I had grown another head.

I shrugged. I suppose he wouldn't understand. No one does.

My parents told me they were happy I was okay, that they loved me, and for the next week they paid me more attention than they had in years before I shut them out again.

The night I was released I went home and burned as much shit I could get a hold of in my fire pit. I pretended that the searing flames eating away at the trash was actually the charred bodies of those boys, bloody and beaten.

Only, I couldn't hear them apologize in the crackling. Only screaming. That suited me just fine, but this time I didn't tell my parents about it, any of it. They thought it was weird enough and with any more they might just through me in an insane asylum.

From then on, when I dreamed, I dreamed of drowning too.

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**Oh, and one question, does the Pyro seem fucked up enough as a kid? Is this overkill, or just fine?**

**have a nice day**

**edited 05/03**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi, back with another chapter. Thanks to all those who reviewed/followed. Please note, our female pyro does not resemble the female pyro model on the interwebs. Our pyro does not have those big ass boobs or big ass ass. Just no.**

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_**~When the water starts boiling it is foolish to turn off the heat.**_

_~Nelson Mandela_

It took me eight months to get my lighter collection back to it's former glory. On the day I was tossed into the reservoir I lost at least four good zippos, and those are hard to get a hold of when you don't have money.

And the beginning of a lifelong fear of water started. It scared me. Not scared in the way some kids are to clowns, or in the way teenage boys are of teenage girls, no, this was a real fear. A real fear that led me straight back to the fakest fucking doctor I ever saw.

And he said: Hydrophobic. He said it as if it was as light as a feather, it danced across his tongue without effort. Hydrophobic. I didn't wanna believe it, my parents didn't either, but it was hard to deny when I flinched and shouted every time a raindrop hit, or when I even came close to a river or that god forsaken reservoir. Showering was barely standable, but the option of a bath flew out the window.

It made my parents scared. Scared for me I think, scared I wouldn't live a normal life with the direction I seemingly insisted to follow.

It made me scared too, but no way I would let anyone know it, not while they were looking.

I liked it when they weren't looking. It made it easier to get away with stuff, and as a teenager, I pulled all kinds of shit no one saw.

_**~The professional arsonist builds vacant lots for money, and for fun.**_

_~Jimmy Breslin_

I started using my fire pit less and less as I grew up. My imagination dulled and I couldn't hear the voices through the crackling like I use to. That, and I just found bigger and better things to burn.

At the age of fourteen, I burned my first building. Nothing big, just a cabin-like shed way past the racetrack and out in the field. At one point it held farm equipment and a dire infestation of rats, but within forty minutes it was reduced to a shell of ash and then just smoke.

I wore the best inconspicuous old hoodie I could find, a black one with all sorts of rips and tears, and a pair of ratty jeans and left. I paid careful attention no one saw my face, cause if they did, it'd be over.

I did it with nothing but matches and a little bottle of lighter fluid. I would later find lighter fluid to much of a cheat to use, but at the time I needed the extra help. I got some on my hands.

I lit a match and the shed lit up like a Christmas tree. I'm sure it was visible from the highway, and maybe even from the old racetrack, but no one came immediately.

It looked lovely. Fucking fantastic. The shed burned like pine cones, and never before had I enjoyed playing with fire so much.

I stood back to admire my work. And then I deemed it admired enough and proceeded to get the hell out of there when the weeds in the field started to catch too. It spread quicker than I anticipated, and the greens of the field smoked, filling the sky and my lungs. I looked around for that bottle of lighter fluid, covering my mouth and nose from the blinding smog.

I found it with flames already eating at the plastic outside. Even teenage me, who would be sent to the burn clinic three times, could identify that if the flames burned through the plastic, it would be bad.

The whole deal was just an amateur mistake. And I committed another one when I didn't just turn tail and run the fuck out of there. In the spur of the moment I knelt down to try and snatch it before it combusted, thinking I could save it.

As soon as I touched it, the container exploded.

You can imagine how my hands felt. Raw. Blood colored with blisters so big I couldn't close my fingers.

Fire, as much as I love it, as much as I use it and tie myself to it, hurts like a bitch. It ate away at the skin on my hands like it was nothing more than paper, and I screamed. Screached. Like a wounded animal, a cornered wolf.

It made me feel small, the way the smoke became everything and ate the sky. Breathing was hard. It was hot. My hands _hurt_.

I held them close for a moment, and looked around. The fire was spreading, across the field rapidly, something I would've been proud of if I didn't feel so goddamn scared.

The sound of sirens coming down the highway brought me back and I sprinted away, wondering the south end of town till the smoke in the sky went away. I returned home at three in the morning.

I my parents noticed my burned hands. The noticed the frantic behavior and the stench of smoke buried in my clothes. And I'm sure they read the damage reports of arson in the next day's paper and tied two and two together.

And I had never felt so alive, than at that moment when I read the destruction report in the paper.

From that day on, my mother had a hard time looking me in the eye, and she couldn't stand to be in the room as my father patched up my hands.

_**~I can burn down in minutes what takes you years to build.**_

_~Unknown_

To say I had a rebellious teenage phase is an understatement. When my father, a hardworking man doing his very best to give my mother and I a good life in America, said I shouldn't go somewhere, I made it a goal to get there just to spite him. I was fifteen, nearly sixteen when I killed my first man.

It's safe to say I wasn't where I should've been. In a part of town my father told me not to go.

And I ran into a stranger on the street. He had greasy hair, hungry eyes, and oversized hands with nails trimmed like a girls.

This ended up being another time when another 50 pounds or six inches would've came in proved to be another time showing I wasn't tough. I wasn't strong. Or brave.

I wasn't bulletproof.

I wasn't mean.

I was so goddamn _stupid_, is was I was. This proved to be another time to show me I couldn't be a dragon. At least, not yet.

Fast forward forty minutes and the greasy guy was locked in a bathroom at some sleazy closed nightclub. I was in the bathroom with him for a bit, long enough that all damage was probably already done. Long enough for him to make me feel lower than dirt, Long enough that _everything_ was left sore. I was covered in bruises and I was just as ready to kill something as I was to curl up in a ball and cry.

How I had gotten away exactly I can't remember but as soon as I got out the bathroom door I slid a broom through the handle so the man inside couldn't get out.

Then I slid to the floor.

And I cried.

The greasy man was banging on the door behind me, demanding I open it and let him out. He was yelling and hollering, barking rabid words. I told him to shut the fuck up once and then stayed quiet as he continued.

Everything hurt. My pride, my skin, every muscle in my body, everything.

I noticed the bar across the nightclub. FulIy stocked. I went to it.

Getting up hurt and walking hurt too, a different kind of pain. It was more of a throbbing pain and I _hated _it. I hated the man behind the door, I hated the nightclub, I hated how fucking stupid I was. I hated how fucking vulnerable I was. I hated it.

I threw a bottle of whiskey as hard as I could. It shattered into a million splintering pieces of glass and the alcohol seeped over the floor. A bottle of rum followed it.

It was hard to hear myself think over the deranged ranting coming from the bathroom and the blare of glass bursting but I realised something I probably shouldn't have. Alcohol is highly flammable.

I had matches in my clothes, a lighter too. The air got a lot colder when I remembered my clothes were locked in bathroom with.. _him_. No way in hell I was getting those back. If I were to unblock that bathroom door he would've come out and likely kill me. He could grab my neck and never let go. He could ram my head in the wall and crack my skull.

I decided that being as naked as the day I was born and without a lighter was fine.

Lucky for me, it was a fucking nightclub. When this thing was open, people probably smoked in it all the time. There was a matchbook in one of the bar drawers. I smashed the rest of the bottles in the bar. Half of the shit I threw I never even heard of before. One particularly heavy bottle was splattered right up against the bathroom door.

The greasy fucker was absolutely howling. Seething the oddest combination of words.

He called me sweetie. Hon. Doll. Bitch. Runt. Whore. Cunt.

I lit one match. I started to walk out, and was reminded that even walking hurts.

The place lit up fast. Like a flashfire. The greasy man behind the door realized what I was doing before he even smelled the smoke. If he was loud before, now he was fucking thunder. Screaming at me to free him, begging for all he's worth for me to let him out. Maybe I felt bad. Maybe I realized I was killing a man.

I thought I would've liked to hear the sound of people I hate _screaming_. All those nights as a kid listening to such horrible things in the fire pit, thinking I would like it, I hated it. I thought causing them -causing _him_\- pain would be easy.

I'll admit to being slow as fuck getting out the burning building, but in my defense I was a bit fucked up at the moment. Couldn't think right.

I was so fucking close to the back door when the floorboards beneath me gave way. Bare skin landed on hot burning coals. The screaming, coming from both the greasy man and I, was so ear splittingly loud I didn't even hear it.

_**~When a man becomes a fireman his greatest act of bravery has been accomplished. What he does after that is all in the line of work.**_

_~Edward F. Croker_

_..._

I think the firemen came quick. I think I heard them burst through the door only minutes after I fell. It's hard to say. Consciousness drifted away so often that time was hard to grasp. As was air. Yes, by the time firefighters came air was particularly hard to come by.

One firefighter, with a painted mask and a shit ton of gear, was walking through the hallway next to me. The firefighter had a painted mask and he was humming, singing even, as he cruised through the hall. The wall in between us had already crumpled and left an ash skeleton, flames creeping up whatever was left.

He didn't see me. I yelled. I yelled louder. I yelled louder still_. _My voice was so fucking hoarse I still don't know how he heard me though the fire and through his equipment. He seemed surprised to see me, half dead, buck naked, suffocating on smoke and burned to shit and back.

He took of his mask and held it against my face till I found my hands and did it for myself. He had a lopsided smile, the kind that's warm. I didn't know why he was smiling. I didn't care either. "You are lucky I'm here kid." He mumbled several encouraging things I'll never remember and hoisted me over his shoulder before taking leave.

I would see him again.

...

I dreamt of the dragon dying. I dreamt of the noble beast taking its final breath and being swallowed by the sea. I dreamt of that god damn greasy man with big hands and hungry eyes.

I dreamt of him killing the dragon. He ripped of its wings and held its head in the ocean, and all the fish in the sea were drowning and with the beast.

I dreamt of other even weirder shit too, the likes of which I can't explain.

I woke up screaming. My throat was sandpaper. My head was

I was held down to the bed. They, the medical staff, held a pillow to my mouth till I calmed down and told me I burned myself real good. Third degree burns covering half my torso, and various spots on my arms and legs, they said.

I was fed more pain meds, someone called and told my parents I was awake. My parents arrived with a couple of police officers.

As stupid as it was, I was damn sure they had come to take me away for arson. At first, I thought about running. I thought about lying too, but I knew they would see right through it if my mom had already told them of my past behavior with fire.

Dear god, did my fingers itch for my lighter. Or matches. Or someone else's lighter. The stress was unbearable. I didn't want to be arrested.

My mom cried over me and my dad told me simply the nicest things as the two police officers stood in the corner, waiting for us to finish our family time.

The officers questions were easy. One of them sparely mentioned the roasted corpse found in a restroom but they didn't really ask about that, they only wanted to know what I was doing naked after hours in a nightclub while it was on fire.

So I swallowed my pride and told them. I told them all of it. I even told them how I locked the man in the bathroom and how I started the fire on purpose.

Neither of the officers were mad, they looked at me with pity and empathy. They agreed that what I did could be settled as self defense and shock. They didn't pursue it further and left.

My mother cried some more.

My father hung his head in shame, but I'm not sure if it was shame in me. He repeatedly cursed that bastard man I meet under his breath, but didn't reprimand me for being where I wasn't supposed to be. I'm not sure he said anything to me at all.

I was released a month later. My family acted like a good functioning family for maybe another month before I messed it up again.

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**edited 05/03**


	3. Chapter 3

**A special thanks to twisterGlitch and SanctusCecidit for your reviews. They made my day, along with everyone else who supported me.**

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_**~The scars of others should teach us caution.**_

_~St. Jerome_

The scars peppered my hands with permanent blisters and left a texture like sandpaper, but that was nothing compared to my back. It looked like it was thrown through a blender. A blender on fire. And it never really ever did stop hurting, never completely. Even now I can feel a phantom pain, though it has healed over and over and over.

It was something I could hide with a collared t-shirt though, at least for the most part. My hands still looked a little messy, and tiny burns freckled down my arms, and don't forget the swirl of angry scarring that reached up to my ear. It's not horribly noticeable, but there.

It never bugged me as much as they bugged everybody else.

_**The first rule of intelligent tinkering is to save all the parts.**_

_~Paul R. Ehrlich_

At fifteen I got my first job, just a few months after my accident. I figured that in only a few years I'd be leaving my parents, so I should prepare. I worked at a mechanic shop, as a junior mechanic.

To get the job I cut my hair boy short, called myself Randy, and said I was eighteen. There wasn't anyway I would get the job being a fifteen year old girl, so I figured a little white lie would do no harm. And it worked. I came home with little more than a buzz cut and told my dad I had a job. He got the situation right away, and instead of yelling at me for lying or being 'unladylike' he said he was proud. I'm still not sure whether he was lying or not, but I lit up like the fourth of July at the words 'I'm proud of you.'

My mom didn't act half as pleased. She stared at my hair for ten straight minutes before asking if I was a homosexual, when I said no she just shook her head. "Then why are you trying to be a boy?" Her tone wasn't hurtful but it struck deep anyway.

I cringed. I didn't know how to react, or why what I was doing was bad. This didn't hurt anyone. So I told her to fuck off, she didn't know shit, and that I was steering my life in the right direction for once. I was going somewhere. I had already been kicked out of school and had to be homeschooled. I had already ruined my chance of normal relationships with people my age, and I had already been nearly arrested dozens of times but I was doing good with this job. She shut up about it, and stopped caring. Within a week she was helping me wash the grease stains out of my uniform.

I think I loved that job. Everyday I went through hell and back to please my bosses, I worked with constantly hungover coworkers, and I carried everyone's load, but I was doing something. That's all I needed to do. Something to set my mind to, and thanks to this distraction, I was able to step away from starting fires for a bit. The way my father put it, the dragon was sleeping.

Sure, I still lit a few fires, but mostly old barns. Most of the time I could just go back to my fire pit and burn trash and yard waste. I assumed things were better like that, and they were. For a while, no one got hurt.

The best part about my job was all the spare parts it allowed me to take home. At the end of the day, after junking a car or a motorcycle or something, there would be all sorts of parts no one needed anymore. I'd ask my boss If I could take some for my car at home, and he'd say yes with the kind of tone that showed he really didn't care. After a while he realized I didn't have a my own car at home, but he still said yes, but now with an amused look.

I started a hobby of tinkering. A lot better than setting fires.

For my sixteenth birthday, my father built a shed in our backyard and let me build my own little workshop in there. It was the most out of character thing for him to do, but every once and a while he'd pull something like that.

I remember my mom watching from the kitchen window, her face pale as a ghost's, and shaking her head as she observed us hoist a wall up. She was half convinced I would cook meth in there or something on that level, but my dad had a little more faith. I think he allowed it because he knew it deterred me from my fire starting habit.

Mostly.

Between the scraps from work and the crap I pulled out of the junkyard, I was free to create whatever the hell I wanted. Blueprints for all sorts of shit lined the walls like wallpaper and wood shavings carpeted the floor.

It was a place I really called home.

And I made flamethrowers in there. I made other stuff too, but not anything worth mentioning. I didn't show them to my parents of course, a long time ago I'd learned it's best not to show them much of anything.

I'll admit the first flamethrower was little more than a spray paint can (as fuel) on a stick with a lighter in front of the nozzle as a pilot light, (something I have no fucking idea how I didn't kill myself with), but they got better. Most were never made, most of them never made it farther than a picture on a paper. One such blueprint was one with the primary part made of a car muffler. It was too dangerous to make but the idea of it always made me giggle.

And then one day, when I was nearly seventeen years old, I made the best one yet. In lack of a better way to put it, it was my baby. My fifty pound, beautiful flamethrower-baby with more examples of fine craftsmanship than most cars. And thus I needed to test it. I needed to use it.

I swear when I say it wasn't meant to be a weapon. It wasn't suppose to even see any action, but it did. When I designed my flamethrower, it was really just an extension of my hobby,

something to do and a nice piece so show off to anyone who came into my shed.

I didn't want to kill anyone with it. That was never the intention. But as soon as it was done I needed to use it.

The racetrack looked old, with lots of fine woodwork to make it seem fancy even though all the horse shit made it look like shit itself. My father took me down there to see a race one day, when the track was new, when I was just a girl. I saw all sorts of different men place ridiculous bets on horses they've never seen before and flip when their horse lost. One man in particular, he lost half of his years salary. That was how my father taught me not to gamble, at least not with money.

I licked my lips in anticipation. I could feel my fingers itching and my breath getting ragged. A job and a new hobby could throw me off my habit for a while, but I'll always come back to it.

I stared at the track for a full fifteen minutes, trying to convince myself not to do it, to turn around, before I torched it. My new flamethrower worked like a charm, it felt as if it was pure power in my hands. I had to retreat a little bit so I didn't suffocate.

And _then_ the screaming started. A continuous, almost inhuman screeching coming from the burning structure, rattling in my ears like a bell. I deflated immediately. Someone was in there. I don't know who, and I don't know why, but someone was in there. I had to back up another twenty yards as the smoke grew and my legs wobbled all the way.

And then the screaming died down, but my heart sped up. It went _thump thump thump_ in my chest so hard I thought it would rip itself out.

I watched from afar as the firemen arrived in not one, but two large fire engines. It would take them hours to completely put out the flames, and by then the fire would have already desolated the area.

At the rate it was going, the fire could have spread to the field. It probably did, but I left too early to see. I should've left way before the fire engine showed up- but Jesus Christ that wasn't the problem, the biggest problem was that _I _had just _killed_ a man, or a woman, or a child. But someone had been in there and I was responsible for their demise. This time it wasn't in self defense, or from shock. There wasn't any justification. In a way it was an accident, but the fire had been on purpose. I think I started crying.

Why the hell did I have to fuck up so _badly_?

I felt just the same as when I started my first fire, useless, a bit regretful, small, full of adrenaline and truly properly _terrified_, but also happy. I had just roasted some poor mother fucker and my emotions were so out of control, yet somehow I felt _happy. _Giddy, even.

By the time I made it home it was already eight in the morning. Both my mother and father had already left for work but there was a note scrawled out on the fridge letting me know I'd be in some deep shit when they got home. They didn't even know the half of it.

Sneaking out seemed like stealing candy next to murdering a man. Luckily I wouldn't have to keep it a secret for long.

_**~Karma's a bitch.**_

_~unknown._

I don't know what possessed me to go to work the next day, but I did. By ten o'clock everyone agreed that I should not be using power tools. By eleven everyone agreed that I shouldn't be around an open hood of any kind. By eleven thirty everyone agreed I shouldn't be near the shop at all. I was still a nervous wreck from the day before. I was so useless at work I got sent home early.

"You okay Randy?" My boss asked. I almost didn't register that Randy was me. I waited too long to respond.

I shrugged. "Just a bit out of it sir."

"You look sick."

I shrugged again. Then he sent me home, where I knew I would have to deal with two livid parents, still mad about the night before. He offered me a ride, a ride I should've fucking took, but I denied and said I'd prefer to walk. I

It was a bit of a walk home, about two miles, and I was almost out of town. On twenty fourth, turning on to highway H (a long mostly-dirt road) when a gas station on the corner blew up without warning.

Flames gushed out at to a 30 meter radius, eating, devouring, destroying. Like a ferocious monster it obliterated everything before I could fucking blink. Everything was just a big blur of black and orange I couldn't tell what was fire what was smoke and what was flying debris.

I hardly had time to scream before the flames hit. And it hurt _so bad_. I was tossed like a rag doll, and then skidded to a halt on the asphalt. Soot and fire rained down. The inferno roared and I couldn't even groan, couldn't even whine. I coughed and a mixture of blood and teeth seeped through my lips.

All I could feel was pain, all I could see was orange and all I could smell was burned flesh. All I could hear was the fire and my heart go _thump, thump, thump _in my ears. Everything _burned_. It burned _so bad_. Even _breathing_ burned, it hurt so bad I stopped.

Somewhere far away a dog was yelping. Someone else was screaming. Some car was honking. My heartbeat got so loud it blocked all that out as I lost consciousness.

_Thump, thump, thump. _

...

The world was moving with nothing more than a gentle hum. Sirens. Yelling. Muttering. Radio static. It was cold.

Consciousness lasted all of twenty seconds.

...

I didn't dream at all.

...

_**~It is said that time heals all wounds**_

_~unknown_

I woke up in the burn unit, but I didn't know it. It looked like some sort of hell, and thanks to a fine assortment of various medicines, I was hallucinating heavily. I woke up scared and hurt in more ways than one, and I also felt an emotion I wasn't use to feeling. I was lonely. Linely and terribly impulsive. My body was too weak to do much, but I leaped up from my bed and ran.

For a few blissful moments, I felt nothing. Then all at once, like getting hit by a train, everything hurt. I stumbled and that's when one of the hospital personnel caught me.

A man held me into the wall and held me there till I calmed down. "We ain't gonna hurt you none," "It's alright honey settle down and we'll tell you what's what." I screamed and clawed all the while as if they were monsters. Someone injected me with a sedative and I slipped back to sleep.

_..._

I woke up again some time later with straps around my arms keeping me to the bed, making sure the last episode didn't repeat itself. It was dark, like night time, and everything from my toes to my head hurt. My head hurt so much I didn't dare even move it to look at myself.

I ran my tongue over my teeth to find out they were all there, many of them having to be fake because I remember losing quite a few. Would they look real? They felt real. That was good enough for the moment.

After enough time laying in the dark, ready to piss myself in fear (I did actually need to pee), I got a little brave. I shifted around and felt around for bandages.

I found many.

There was one on my leg, closed around my knee, and some thick bandages on my inner thigh, rubbing against my crotch in the most uncomfortable way. One arm was bandaged loosely, and my stomach was tightly. On my head, covering the right side of my face, I could feel the pressure of a bandage. That made me choke on a sob. What the fuck did I do to my face. I didn't need scars on the fucking face. It immediately scared me. I had enough fun hiding my scars, I didn't need one on my face from a fire I didn't even start.

I cried. Like a baby. Loudly, with heavy sobbing. Eventually a nurse came in, held my hand and told me the situation while I wailed for my father like a ten year old.

Yep, I was sixteen, halfway to seventeen and crying for my father.

The nurse told me I had third and second degree burns covering _35 fucking percent_ of my face, and a little bit up my left leg. A piece of metal wedged itself into my thigh, it was removed, but they have to watch the wound closely. My torso, she said, was heavily bruised with a good bit of glass cuts, along with a bit of first and second degree burns, but other wise would be fine if I gave it time to heal.

I was hurt bad, she told me as if I didn't know. I'd be in the hospital, particularly the burn unit, for a long time. I wasn't brave enough to ask how long a long time was. I cried a little more and waited for my parents to come because if they didn't get here soon I'd probably die and Jesus Christ I just _needed_ them.

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**Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please drop me a review, and have a wonderful day.**

**Edited 05/05**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. I've gotten some awesome response. To Cruz: the pyro's gender really hasn't been revealed. That game theory thing isn't proof. Some people strongly think pyro is male, others strongly female. I'd be open to either, but I'd like to think it's female so that's why it is in this story. I'm glad you like the story, but sorry that the language is getting to you. I just imagine the pyro as a potty mouth so... yeah.**

**Sorry this chapter is so long, I had to cut some things out.**

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_**~The serial arsonist is the most difficult to apprehend because the evidence is burned up.**_

_~Joseph Wambaugh_

The first two times my parents visited, I was asleep and missed them. The third time they visited, I leapt out of the hospital bed and probably gave them the biggest hug I'd ever given them. I regretted it soon after. It hurt. Hurt a lot. My father had to help me back into the bed, like I was an old lady with glass bones and paper skin.

I asked if either of them had any cigarettes or matches, they didn't of course, so I sat back down and waited for all the questions. There's always questions. Mom was a wreck. She kept staring at the bandages wrapped around my head and blinking, as if next time she opened her eye's they'd be gone. Dad wasn't that much better, in fact, that was the only time in my entire life I can recall him crying.

We all pretended not to notice. I don't like seeing him cry. I try to forget it ever happened.

The next thirty minutes were probably rather normal considering the situation, full of hugs and nice words and all that shit, but then my father handed me the newspaper with an article on the accident.

Gas stations don't just blow up. Of course it didn't, that shit doesn't happen. I tried to read the explanation but all of the words swirled together. Focusing on the newspaper print damn near impossible and after five minutes of staring at it my mom read it out loud.

The newspaper stated that someone cut the gas lines, and the station was just one big ticking time bomb for however long it took for some guy to drop a cigarette. The newspapers were calling it a tragedy. Eleven people got caught in the explosion. I was one of the _three_ who lived.

Left an odd taste in my mouth. A dizzy feeling in my gut.

The thing that got me though, was that the gas lines were cut. They don't cut themselves. Sabotage. Arson.

The only thought in my head was the possibility of another arsonist in town. In _my_ town, where I should be the only one. I felt oddly territorial, as if setting fires was mine. No one else's hobby, but mine. No fucking way I could do shit about this other arsonist though.

Then my dad asked if I was the one who did it, and he sounded near tears again.

I looked him in the eye and said no. It was nice not to have to lie for once. "I swear I didn't do it."

He nodded. Then he asked me if I started the fire a night before the accident, the fire at the racetrack.

"..."

"Did you?" My heart flipped flopped.

I knew both of them were looking for me to say no, and they might've believed me if I did, however I never was very good at telling lies. I told them I did start that fire, and I'm sure they heard the damage reports so I didn't need to tell them I killed a man too. They already knew.

I didn't have the courage to ask who died.

Mom cried, I whimpered, and Dad yelled. His voice was like ice shards. Blades. every word hurt. So none of the nurses or other patients in the clinic would understand, he yelled in Japanese. My Japanese is only so-so, hadn't spoke it in years, so about half of the lecture I missed. However, I got the gist of it.

"I'm sorry." I meant it.

_**~Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.**_

_~Helen Keller_

In the burn unit, the nurses recognized that people got bored, mostly because you couldn't leave. They wheeled me out into the rec room, which may be one of the most depressing places on earth. Everything was a pristine white and the walls were covered in windows that let us see outside to the beautiful weather that none of us could enjoy. I saw people who had been melted like a candle in there, people with no chance of ever leading a normal life and might as well hide their faces in paper bags.

I was lucky, said the nurses, the damage done to my face wasn't actually that bad. Compared to these guys without so much as two identifiable eye slits, it was great. Luckily, those patients often didn't journey into the rec room.

In that room, I also met my best friend. He had the most offensive red hair and skin unnaturally tan for a ginger. Couldn't have been more than twenty, but the wrinkles around his eyes were plain as day. Old eyes. Dull eyes, even. Dense bandages wrapped around his head and part of his face concealed some ugly scalding. I had suspicions that he right bit of his face wasn't there.

And god was he a pansy. The best pansy I ever knew.

He, my friend, was always in the rec room. And everyday, I would be wheeled or limp over to him, and we'd be left to our own devices.

For the first week and a half the only bits of conversation we had were pained grunts and moans and complaints. We were both too drugged to do so much as talk about the weather outside. It took me a week and a half to even learn his name. The only reason we even persisted to sit next to each other, was the fact that we both suffered facial injuries and if need be could express how much it sucked to each other.

The first real bit of conversation we had went like this: "What's your name?"

I answered and asked him back. He answered.

"This place sucks."

"Yep."

The second piece of conversation went like this: "I always wondered how you turned out." His voice was charming, if not a little gruff and raspy, and he spoke about near everything like he was speaking of the weather.

It took me a minute to realize that was a weird thing for him to say. I shrugged and waited for him to continue.

He turned to me, looking hopeful. "...Do you recognize me?" I stared at him for a full two minutes before shaking my head no.

I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or not. He hummed a familiar tune and we sat for another few minutes before he quietly said something like "I expected that much" or "I assumed so."

I'm not sure weather I was hearing any of this right. "Should I?"

"Yeah, I'm the man who took you out of that burning building over a year ago." He said nonchalantly with a raised eyebrow.

Oh. Ohhh. Why hadn't I seen it earlier? I felt like a fucking dope. _This_ was the firefighter that saved me from that burning night club over a year ago, the one with the painted gas mask and lopsided smile (extra lopsided now).

I didn't reply quick enough, so he continued. His voice deadpanned. "I was also the man who got to hold you still while the police confirmed your rape case cos' the ambulance was taking forever to show up and you were bleeding and-"

"_Shutup."_ I really wished he hadn't said that. It left a bad taste in my mouth. "I don't remember that."

Suppose you wouldn't, you were pretty out of it at that point, but come on. You have to remember _me_." His eye (only one was visible) searched mine for any sign of recognition, nearly begging for it.

"I remember you."

He nodded and we both fell silent again. He picked a lighter from his pocket and played with it. I wondered where he got it because I really wanted one. I almost asked for it.

"You started that fire, the one I took you out of, right?"

I nodded. I expected the fireman to scold me or something, and in a way, he did.

"That was very amateur you know. You should've been out of there the minute you lit the place."

I didn't like him calling my work amateur, and I felt like defending it, but instead I just stared at his scarred up hands fidget with the lighter. My mouth felt oddly dry.

"Be more careful with your fires, you don't want to get caught in them."

Well duh. Of course I don't want to be caught in them. I would've told him that was the worst piece of advice ever, but he continued.

"Just get smart about it and you'll stay out of this place a lot more."

"I'm not in here cause I burned myself, it was someone else's mess." I huffed.

His face paled, but only for a second. "So you're not totally useless at starting fires?"

"Fuck no. I'm good at it, I've just had off days."

He nodded to show he understood. "Suppose without you, I wouldn't have a job." He pocketed his lighter.

I nodded and we both settle back into a comfortable silence. I, an arsonist, a pyromaniac, should feel uncomfortable or guilty, or something bad when with a firefighter, right? But I didn't. He didn't look at me like I was a monster, or a scarred freak, or even like some sort of convict.

And that's why we became friends, if at first you could even call it that.

The next day I asked him why he was here. He licked his lips and opened his mouth a few times and then closed it uselessly. He resembled a gaping goldfish. After a minute he spoke up. "An accident at the racetrack... Support board fell when I was checking to see if anyone was in there."

Ha. Ha ha. Hilarious. A great fucking coincidence. And wait, _it gets better._

After gapping and spacing out for a minute, and then another minute of shaking knees, I found the courage to tell him I started that fire. He just laughed it off. He laughed a lot of things off.

"It was a good fire."

I might've felt proud. "Thank you."

"Now, what did you do to yourself this time? Why are you here?"

"I was one of the unlucky bastards caught in the highway explosion." I said.

His face fell a few shades lighter till it was as white as peered around to see if anyone was listening. "You're fucking joking right?"

"Nope."

"'Cause I sabotaged that place."

We gave each other sideways looks before I asked him a bunch of questions. my fireman was an arsonist too (a damn good one at that), responsible for several fires throughout that state.

The irony was simply too much.

_**~Give a man a match, and he'll be warm for a minute, but set him on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his short life.**_

_~unknown_

My new friend (for various reasons I will not tell you his name) told me of a bunch of fires he's had the pleasure to extinguish over the years, and I'd tell him which one's I'd lit and which ones weren't me.

He told me which ones were ridiculous, which ones were good, and how much damage each one did. It was a wonder to us both how I hadn't been caught yet.

I asked him why he was a firefighter if he was also an arsonist, and he just shrugged and said that sometimes he likes to play the hero and the villain. It didn't make much sense, but he was enough of a poet that it sounded nice out of his mouth.

I nodded along even though I knew I could never be the same. I would always get to play the bad guy, but I didn't really mind it.

I asked him why I don't see much of his work in the paper or on the news, and he gave me the most important advice. He said that he tries not to make a habit of starting fires where he lives. 'Don't shit where you eat' he said. He would travel far out of town to start his fires, and he said that the gas station was a 'one in a dozen' and he really shouldn't have done it for it was just fucking dumb. It was too close.

"Don't shit where you eat, it makes it easier for them to find you." At one point, I used that like it was law.

Most of the days in the burn unit, we would sit by each other and no words would be exchanged. Sometimes we would pass his lighter back and forth, and sometimes we would just stare at the hallucinations the pain meds gave us. Correction. _I _would stare at the hallucinations the pain meds gave me. He would just watch concerned.

The more the days went on, the more the hallucinations happened. It started small, like seeing an extra person in the room that wasn't there. Then the people got faces. Once they started talking, I got really freaked out. Soon I started doubting what was real. After expressing this to the nurses, they got quite freaked out. They flipped my prescriptions upside down.

Then, a week into the odd visions, I saw him. The plague of half my dreams, possibly the very linchpin of my suffering. I saw the same greasy motherfucker I ran into at fifteen. He was just sitting in the corner of the rec. room, blending in among the crowd by playing chess with an old man. I didn't know how to deal with it, and thus things went poorly. Somehow, in a fragmented conversation, I told what I saw to my friend and I swear his skin turned five different shades of green.

I started having trouble breathing. He screamed for a nurse, several came running, and they took me back to my room while my firefighter tagged along like a lost puppy.

And, I think that is the time I had my first panic attack. It was ugly. I cried alot, I broke things, and in the end my firefighter got to hold me still while a doctor sedated me.

...

At one point, my boss came to visit me. Now, the burn unit didn't really hand out bras, so of course I was showing what pathetic excuse for tits. My hair, which had grown a bit, wasn't slicked back like it normally was. Instead, it hung in awkward toughs in my face.

I clearly wasn't a the 18-19 year old Randy I was supposed to be.

He didn't care. He said I still had a job when I got out of there. I thanked him and he left after agreeing to say hi to the other guys at the shop for me. I liked my boss from then on.

My parents came to visit me a lot too, every other day at least, but we never really looked each other in the eye, and we barely spoke. They were ashamed of me. I knew it. They knew it. But so what. I didn't give a shit if they thought I was an embarrassment. I stopped fucking caring years ago.

_**~It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars.**_

_~Garrison Keillor_

Eventually the awkward wrapping around my thigh came off finally allowing me to see the new skin. And yes, the inside of my right thigh looked like someone attacked it with a flaming weed wacker. Next time I got with someone for sexual relations it would be one hell of an interesting scar to explain.

Then again, they all would be hard to explain.

Thanks to that specific injury, I was left with a bit of a limp. I still had that limp long after the wound healed up, but every time I'd realize I wasn't limping my leg would start hurting and I'd start limping again. It was a little limp, not always there, and almost like a waddle at times. It was something psychological, said the doctors.

It was also fucking embarrassing because in real life, I was limping for no _real_ reason. I was imagining pain. However, despite the embarrassment, I got over the news of the limp fairly easily. A lot of people had one, and though it would look funny, I could still run. I brushed it off.

Then came the day I got the bandages on my face removed. He, the firefighter, got his removed too, just the day before, but I didn't want to see him till I got mine removed too. I didn't go in the rec room that day.

One of the nurses cut away the wrappings, and smiled at me. It was fake smile. I was very use to fake smiles. It wasn't too forced, so I remained hopeful. She handed me a beat up old mirror. "Take a look hon."

Angry red clouded around my eye and up past my ear like a puffy check mark. I had no eyelashes or eyebrow on the left side of my face, and the scar tissue that formed around my left eye made me always look... tired. Warn down. Older. My ear was a chewed up piece of hot wax, barely heard a thing out of it for awhile.

The nurse told me it really wasn't that bad, but oh, I thought it was. Just looking at it felt like a slap.

"It's really not that bad, honey."

"Okay."

"Really, it isn't."

_"Okay."_

...

I held myself together till I got to the rec room and sat down with the other arsonist. I looked him in the eye and twitched. His whole right side was obliterated, as if it was shoved into an oven and then carved like a pumpkin. Compared to him, I _was_ lucky. Even so, that didn't make me feel any better.

He was playing with his lighter, and his face (the not burned side) was stock serious, not something he usually was. We sat next to each other in silence for a bit, the only sound was the other patients in the room that were watching the tele and the on and off of his lighter."..."

I sniffled. The redhead turned to me and gave a lopsided smile. "See you're not all that thrilled with your results either, huh?"

I nodded.

He grabbed my face, rougher than necessary, and made me look at him while he judged it. He took too long for my taste. "Now, it really isn't that bad, I mean, it isn't nice... but it's not bad." He ran his thumb over the sensitive scabs. "In a couple years who knows what it'll look like."

"You too."

"Now that's a lie."

"Yeah, but I don't give half a damn how you look."

He laughed and the serious moment was over. "You too."

...

Looking others in the eye grew to be a harder and harder thing to do. It was like the equivalent of jumping mountains. I just couldn't do it without wondering what they were thinking, seeing, and assuming about me.

...

After I was released from the burn unit, I returned back to work (for short shifts and easy labor) and everything seemed like normal. I had the same dwindling family relationship, the same job, and the same shed, just like how I left it. I left my friend. I went back to see him after a few days, but my that time he had already been released too.

I'd see him again and I knew it.

The day I got out of the burn unit I dusted off my flamethrower, borrowed my dad's car and I burned down a barn. It was about 10 miles out of town, so it didn't quite fit the 'don't shit where you eat' rule but I had needed to burn something for months so I didn't care. No shits given.

Even though roughly 40 percent of my body was covered in mismatching burns, I didn't fear the fire. I had half a mind to let it burn me down along with every other building I set a match to. I didn't of course, that would be silly. I left when the barn was still standing.

That fire didn't even make the newspapers. My father never found out.

I got home in the early early hours of the morning and curled up on my bed to go to sleep when I saw something laying on my dresser. It was a envelope. A new one. It wasn't there when I left. On the front it clearly said "CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION FOR MISS-" the rest had been scratched out with sharpie. Inside was a letter from RED, Reliable Excavation Demolition. It was a job offer.

I didn't give it a second look before tearing it to pieces and letting it smolder in my ashtray.

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**Do any of you fine people like the firefighter?**

**Thanks for all your support. Please drop me a review and have a** _**fantastic**_ **day.**

**edited 05/08**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello. So, about half the comments so far have been pointing out spelling/grammar mistakes. Thanks for pointing those out. Last chapter had some... silly mistakes. At one point I put 'genital' instead of 'gentle.' XD Yep. Not sure if that was just me being special or auto correct gone wrong. Either way, I don't mind when you point out stuff like that. As long as you're nice about it, I like it. It helps me as an author. **

**Now, this is a mega chapter. I won't be updating for a week, so this one is uber long. If I did it right, this will hit your feels too. **

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_**~Without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.**_

_~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr._

I was home for a week no more than before my firefighter friend paid me a visit again, around mid day. I hadn't been talking to others much due to my... lesser self esteem, and for a week the only other people I conversed with where mom and dad. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy to see him.

He stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back, standing politely, and asked if my parents were home. I said no, they were at work.

"What the fuck do you want?"

He didn't answer and stepped in and admired the place. He complemented the house for small talk. I shrugged. He said he was just checking up on me, making sure I was doing okay. I was doing fine and told him so.

"Okay."

Then he continued. "I brought you something."

"Oh?"

"Yep. So you don't suffocate yourself." He gave his famous lopsided smile and pulled a gas mask out from behind his back. "Breathing is important ya know."

"Why?"

His smile dissolved into a shit-eating smirk. "Well, you need to breath because you need air, which is what you breath in-"

"Not that you smart ass."

He laughed. I like his laugh.

"Why give me this?"

"Well, us firemen wear them so we can _breath. _I figured you could use one for when you face smoke and toxic gasses."

I just stared at him.

"Burning shit often gives off tons of toxic gasses."

"I know that! But... Thank you. Thank you a lot." I still didn't understand why he cared enough to give it to me. It made me feel funny, and I was never good with feelings.

I looked down at the gas mask. It was black, covered the entire face with goggles for eye holes, and worn straps held it to your head. Till this day I don't know what make it was, or what year, but I liked it.

"Yep. Anytime." He smiled again. Sometimes it bugged me how charming he acted. I then did something I would never do for anyone else. I invited him to stay. He said he'd be delighted too and made himself at home.

For the next few hours we sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed some coffee. We talked about the randomest things, all the while the gas mask sat on the kitchen table. At three o'clock he left, and I put the gas mask in the shed so my parents wouldn't see it. It was a good day.

...

Next week, on the same day, he came back again. It was on my seventeenth birthday, but I don't think he realized it. Just luck.

"Let's go grab some grub."

"Why?"

"I don't know, just cause? Are you allergic to food or something? Lets go, I'll pay."

"Okay."

And so he drove us to a dinner. And we sat at a booth and ordered a couple of burgers. And it was weird. Everyone was staring and he didn't give a single fuck, he just hummed a tune and ignored them.

He didn't care about the way the waitress cringed every time she saw the right half of his face, or the left half of mine. He pretended not to notice how the kids a few tables down had their eyes glued to us, or the old couple across the dinner who weren't even making an attempt at not staring.

God did I hate the starting. It made my skin itch and my insides bubble with the need to give them something real to stare at.

My friend simply ignored it. I did my best to follow his lead, but dear god there are little things I hate more that being looked at like that. I know I imagining it twice as worse than it really was, but it made my breath hitch and scars tingle. Then the tingling developed into a dull burn.

"...You okay?"

"Fucking awesome." Not sure if I said that or just thought it.

He put down his burger and he dropped the happy nonchalant tone in his voice. "Are. You. Okay?"

I felt sick and I didn't even know why. Colors seemed to just blend together and words stopped making sense.

"I'll go pay the bill and we can get out of here."

He left to pay the bill. And I'm not crazy, or, at least I wasn't crazy, but in the corner of my vision I swear that god damn greasy man from when I was fifteen standing and staring. He wasn't. I knew he wasn't. It felt like he was.

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Literally. Everything was just blurs in my vision.

Eventually I found myself laying on my couch with the firefighter sitting in the chair next to me, sweating like a pig.

"You okay?"

"Yep."

"What happened...?"

"Don't know, but I feel better now."

"No, really, what happened. Do I need to take you to a doctor?"

I told him that I simply panicked and lost control. As similar as we could be at times, he never had that kind of problem. I hated feeling weird, even weird compared to the arsonist/firefighter with half a face.

He made some coffee, stayed for another hour and left before my parents came home and I had to go to work.

_**~Genius is initiative on fire.**_

_~Holbrook Jackson_

My friend visited me once a week. It was scheduled. Sometimes he'd pick me up from work too, we'd grab dinner or something like that. I liked it, though till this day I don't know if it was supposed to be some sort of romantic thing, or a brother/sister relationship. Sometimes I thought he was gay, but I couldn't be sure.

I didn't love him, at least, I don't think I did. I don't think I ever could, I don't know if I'm capable of loving anybody. He didn't know what to call our relationship either, so we didn't call it anything.

One day he picked me up from work and told me we were going to Windom, a town not all that far away, a few hours at most.

He said something like: "They have this textile factory, and I've gone there a few times to scope out the factory, it'll burn like crazy. You gotta go." Yep. The firefighter only did this sort of thing every several months to reduce the chance of getting caught. I didn't know whether to be honored or not that he invited me.

And thus I went, but I told him we needed to stop by my house first to grab some things.

I told my parents some phony half-assed excuse as to where I was going, they stopped caring by that point because they knew if they said no I would do it anyway.

I went to the shed and motioned for him to follow, more for the purpose of showing off my workshop than anything else. He followed like a lost puppy.

He marveled at it, and it made me proud. Then I showed him my flamethrower. He marveled at that too. I let him hold it even, but I made sure his hands were clean and that he held it properly.

He gave it back to me and walked around the shed, eyeing all the unfinished projects and blueprints lining the walls. "More flamethrower plans?"

"Kinda, they'll never get done. They all have some flaw that I can't work out."

"Okay. Um, could I take a few?"

The one eyebrow I had raised. "Why?"

"I don't know, they look cool, I could hang them on the walls in my apartment or something."

That sounded fucking stupid. "If you want." I handed him the blueprints for the heavy and heavier-burning one with a dragon shaped nozzle and the one that would be built out of mostly lawn mower parts.

I grabbed my flamethrower and the gas mask and we left. He shoved the stupid blueprints in his glove box and I put my stuff in back, he had his own gas mask, a couple gallons of gasoline and a fire axe back there.

"Let's go."

...

The textile factory burnt well. The gas mask worked well. The flamethrower worked fantastically. We didn't stay long enough to see the flames spread to anymore than 1/6 of the factory, but if we waited any longer we could've been seen. The fireman was really shaky. Shaky enough that I had to drive home, but before he left, he walked up to the nearest tree and pinned a piece of paper to it.

"What are you doing?"

"It's my trademark. So they know the same guy starts all of the fires." The fire behind us roared.

"That's silly. What the hell is on the paper?" I pushed him out of the way to see what it was. A stylized 19 sat in the middle.

"It's my nineteenth fire. Real fire." He explained. _Only 19?_

I huffed before telling him quietly. "Having a trademark is... fucking stupid. You tell me all the time to make precautions so I don't get caught, but you do this."

"Yeah, I do." He replied defensively. He seemed a bit annoyed.

"That's just fucking stupid."

"God, do you have to curse so much?"

"Yeah, I do." I sent him a challenging glare.

He waved me off and stormed over to the car. I kicked him out of the front seat because he hands were shaking too much to even put the key in the ignition. I started the car (I also made sure the headlights were off) and took side roads till we were a safe distance away.

For most of the ride, the car was silent.

"How many people do you think we just killed." It was a question but he didn't ask it like one. His attitude, which was usually happy go lucky was now completely serious whereas I felt full of adrenaline and rush.

Sure, a nagging feeling solidified in my stomach at the thought of someone else dying at my hand, but I felt to content to even care at the moment.

"Don't know." I shrugged. Couldn't have been many, if any, the place had been closed. Then again, that was my logic for the racetrack and someone roasted in there.

The whole idea of someone dying in there messed with him a lot less than it messed with me. I realized we were more different than I thought. Yet when I looked over at him, he was _smiling_. Fucking smiling.

We agreed that we wouldn't start fires together anymore, and it was a whole two weeks before I saw him again.

...

One nice thing about his trademark was, it always made some town's newspaper, sometimes even the channel ten news. I was always able to tell when a fire was his.

_**~It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.**_

_~John Green_

I'm not sure if I ever loved my parents. I felt a connection to them, sure, but love might be too big of a word to use. I definitely didn't love my mother when she left.

The worst thing is, I think I'm the one who drove her out. My father and I watched as she packed her bag and simply left. She didn't need us. I suppose we didn't _need _her either but we definitely wanted her.

I came home that day in a police car, I'd gotten in a fight and sent two to the hospital. I wasn't proud of it, but like always it took a few minutes for the feelings and guilt to sink in. The cops thought I was a boy at first and told my parents that their son was in a fight and beat two people half to death.

My defense was that they started it.

My dad defended me. He only needed to here the story once and insert two little words; Hate Crime. He said the other kids signaled me out due to my ethnicity (which was complete bull shit but I didn't say so). His logic was solid and his days in law school did us well, the police left after only a few minutes with their tails between their legs. No one wants to deal with a hate crime, I was let off the hook.

Then my mom exploded.

Before she left she told us that I was an unruly child destined for nothing but prison and my dad wasn't half the man he pretended to be because he didn't do anything about it. She slung insults that would look bad on my lips, let alone her own.

She left. It didn't seem real.

She left and it was, in all reality, my fault.

I felt the damn greasy man laughing behind me, breathing on my ear, daring myself to remind her that I was human. Daring to remind her that I bled red and cried just like her, that I felt emotions too.

And I would've ran after her to prove it, but I didn't think I could. My eyes were dry. I acted calm, and though I'd just been in one hell of a gang fight I had nothing more than bruises and a black eye.

After thirty minutes I fully realized what really just happened and fell apart.

My father did too, but he didn't come out of his room. It's for the best, I mean, I didn't want to see him cry.

Middle of the night I snuck out and lit the hills on fire. It was the only way I could think of to handle the emotions, emotions that I really didn't know how to handle. I'd come to accept that I probably didn't love my mother but I'd never thought that she didn't love me.

...

That week when my friend the firefighter came to visit, I couldn't do anything but cry. I didn't cry often, rarely ever, but I feel that if I had done it more I wouldn't have been such a monster.

I was the first person to call myself a monster.

"God-" Won't say his name- "I'm a monster." I sobbed out.

He sighed. "Yeah, well, if you're a monster I probably am too."

That didn't help. As similar as we acted at times, it always fell through that we were very different people.

"I don't care if you're a monster." He pulled me into one of those awkward one armed hugs and ruffled my hair in a big brotherly way. "I also don't care what you look like, that your mother is a bitch, or that you have a slight tendency to curse excessively." He hummed his favorite tune and we spent the rest of the hour in silence.

It bugged me how he didn't deny my statement, but I got over it with the help of my job and my workshop keeping me busy. It soon became just another thought in the back of my head waiting to resurface.

...

I was sitting with my father outside, feeding the fire pit. I'd started using it daily again. My father even through a couple of family photos into it. I watched several pictures of my mother go up in smoke.

My dad called to me. He asked me to never leave him because he wouldn't be able to handle it.

I agreed. And that's why on my eighteenth birthday I didn't move out. I had enough money for it for sure, but it wouldn't feel right.

...

The day I turned eighteen my friend took me out for several drinks. I got quite drunk. At the time, the drinking age was only eighteen in New York, though in a few years it would change. My friend drove me home too, wishing me a happy birthday and telling me to take care.

It was a good day.

The next day my mother came back. She claimed she came back to wish me a happy birthday and that she was only there was a week.

She never told me happy birthday once, in fact, she even questioned when I was going to move out. Luckily Dad moved in there and said I didn't have to, that he didn't want me too. That made me feel nice because we both knew that if moved out my mother might've moved back in.

I wanted to tell that bitch to get the hell out of my house. Dad didn't.

She questioned if I was ever going to get married, or if I would let my hair grow out, or if I would go to law school like my father. I told her to fuck off, and when we butted heads, my father even took my side. It was a good feeling while it lasted.

The day after that my friend picked me up from work. We went out for dinner and I told him the situation. He just laughed and told me to give that bitch hell.

I intended too, and dear god did I ever, I would take it all back if I could.

...

That night my mother and father were asleep. I was watching the fire pit. It seemed like any day. I built the fire up a bit more.

And I was stupid.

Really stupid.

I swear I saw something moving at the other end of the property, something tall and man shaped. I went over there to investigate. Truth be told, whatever it was I don't remember well, and it was probably just a hallucination, seeing as I had those from time to time.

Dear god, whatever happened next I don't really know but I thought I was chasing something, someone, off my property. I really did! When I turned back around and realized nothing was there, the yard was on fire. The grass near the fire pit had caught.

And it was spreading fast. I sprinted back, completely ignoring my supposed limp and I erupted into the shed, searching for a fire extinguisher. I knew I had one, probably a couple but my head had blanked and I found nothing.

The smoke grew too great to see anything out of, so I put on the gas mask. As soon as flames started to nip at the sides of the shed I got the hell out of there, (I even grabbed my flamethrower before I left so it wouldn't melt in the fire.) I had enough flammables/explosives in there to blow it to kingdom come.

I was about twelve steps out of the shed and running to get my parents out of the house when it blew up.

The blast knocked the gas mask off my face, the flamethrower out of my hands, and me to the ground. I landed in fire. It took me several seconds to get up. It hurt like fucking Christ. Burns always do, and I landed on my side. My whole left arm left fried, my leg seemed mostly okay, my jeans protected me well, but my face tingled with a feeling that told me it would hurt like hell in a minute when the shock wore off.

More burns. Even more.

I put the mask back on (for breathing purposes,) and grabbed the flamethrower, which I later ditched in the bushes by the front door. The house was on fire. Everything was on fire. I feared it. It felt like I was sizzling away in the heat.

Adrenaline pulled me up the stairs and I burst through my parents door. My mother lay in one bed while my father in the other, both of them unconscious. Probably from smoke, they were likely slowly suffocating without knowing about it or being able to do anything about it.

And once again, it was my fault.

My father wasn't a heavy man. Neither was my mother. I could've carried either of them, but not both. I don't know why I chose my mother. I slung her over my shoulder and turned around without thinking twice about it.

On the way out I fell down twice, and the second time I fell it was so hard to get back up. I knew that If I didn't my mother and I would die, my father could already be dead, but if I died I wouldn't be able to get him out anyway.

I took of the gas mask and strapped it to my mother, who may or may not have been breathing. Blood drizzled out of the filter, my blood. As soon as I saw that I realized how much my face hurt. I didn't want to get up. I blanked out and next thing I knew I was coughing and carrying my mother out the door. I tossed her down in the dirt driveway, nearly on the street. My bad leg felt like it was about to fall off.

And I had to sit down. I was too weak to walk back in and save my father. I was a weakling. I wasn't a dragon.

My breath wheezed. Breathing was hard. Every time I blinked and opened my eyes more of the house was on fire. My mother started waking up. At first it was just a fit of coughing, but within a minute she was awake. She tore the bloody mask off her face and with fear filled eyes looked at me. She didn't look past the new trauma on my face before collapsing in on herself and grossly sob.

I almost didn't notice when the firetruck came. Someone down the road must've seen the smoke and called the fire department, good thing too. Sirens brought me back to reality. The truck pulled up behind us. Men ran about. They screamed directions at each other.

One fireman with a painted mask knelt down in front of me.

"Oh thank god you're safe!" He exclaimed and pulled me into a bone crushing hug, my aching face squished against his rubber coat. I made a muffled sound that sounded almost like a sob but he probably took it as a hello.

He didn't ask how it happened, because we both already knew. I just hope he knew it was an accident. My mom didn't ask who he was, she was still in too much shock. The other firemen centered hoses on the house.

My friend gently grabbed my face and turned it so he could see the new trauma. "The paramedics will be here soon, for both of you." My mother still didn't look at us.

He pulled me to my feet. "It'll be okay." He gave one of his famous lopsided smiles.

"私の父はそ-" I cut myself off as soon as I realized I was speaking the wrong language and tried again. "My father is in there."

His eyes went wide and my mother let out another pathetic sob. Tears streamed down my one eye, the other one's tear ducts had melted shut. The firefighter placed a kiss on my forehead.

"I'll get 'em." He promised.

He yelled to the others, and another firefighter of whom I can't name tended to my mother and I. Two men, including my friend, entered the house. I don't think I breathed for two straight minutes, and though I never really believed in a god but I was praying.

_'Please.' _Nothing happened.

_'Please.' _More nothing.

_'Please be safe.'_

And then the house collapsed. Firefighters all around yelled, but I didn't hear any words. Both my mother and I let out a wail of despair.

The house was a pile of burning rubble.

And it was my fault.

The only people in the world that might've loved me, and the only one's I might've loved back, were just crushed. It felt like my chest, more like my heart, had been compressed into a tiny little ball and then swallowed.

I put my hand on my mother's shoulder as the firefighters continued trying to put out the fire and dig through the rubble. The fireman that was with us ran to help the others.

"...Mom." I wanted her to turn around and look at me. I wanted her to see me being human, to see me crying, bleeding the same she color she does, to realize this was a mistake (which human make a lot of) and not on purpose. I wanted her to hug me too. I wanted her to stop the pain, both in my head, on my face and scattered all over my body. I wanted her to love me.

"Get." If I had a gun I would've sent a bullet through my brain.

"Mom..."

"Get."

I took one last look at the house, and bent down to take the gas mask. I put it over my face. It rubbed against the burn painfully but I didn't bother to adjust it.

"Get." She repeated.

I left while the firemen were still busy.

I just started walking, more like limping, away. I didn't have a set direction, but when I was probably a hundred feet from what was my house, I bent down, and remembered the most useless of conversations.

"_It's my trademark. So they know the same guy starts all of the fires."  
_

"_That's silly. What the hell is on the paper?" I pushed him out of the way to see what it was. A stylized 19 sat in the middle. _

"_It's my nineteenth fire. Real fire." He explained.  
_

_I huffed before telling him quietly. "Having a trademark is... fucking stupid. You tell me all the time to make precautions so I don't get caught, but you do this." _

"_Yeah, I do." He seemed a bit annoyed. _

"_That's just fucking stupid."_

I got the whole trademark thing. At least, I thought I did. It more for you than anyone else. It was so you remembered the fires, and if you forgot, someone else was keeping a running tally for you, because they knew which ones were yours. Or that could not be it at all. Either way, I bent down and with my own blood dripping out of the mask and covering my arm, I wrote a twenty-four.

I'm not sure if it was my twenty-fourth fire or his twenty-fourth fire. I'm not sure of which tally I was using.

They'd find the number, I told myself. I walked off the road and the opposite direction of the town, so of course I didn't get to see the slow-as-fuck police or the late ambulance showing up, but I heard them.

As a kid I always wanted to feel like a dragon. Now all I wanted was to feel human.

* * *

**That was long an a lot happened. Any good? Did it hit any feels? Well, for three chapters now I've been promising RED coming in, but I just keep adding more and more till the point where it won't fit. It'll be in next chapter but don't take my word for it because I've lied to many times. Have a nice day and thanks for all the support. **

**Please leave me a review, and have a fucking fantastic day. :D  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Yeah... this chapter is a bit late. To make up for its tardiness, I made it extra long. Hope you like it, it's an important chapter. Thanks to everyone who's been supportive so far. **

**Also, I have a proof reader now. Her name is Shius, and she is awesome. Many thanks to her, she showed me just how many mistakes I've been making.**

* * *

_**Every nerve that can thrill with pleasure, can also agonize with pain.**_

_~Horace Mann_

It hurt.

I haven't ever gone with burns untreated before. I always got to the hospital or got them patched up at a reasonable time, but I had been wandering for four days with open wounds on both my face and arm.

And it hurt. Dear God, do burns hurt.

One was festering on the side of my face, rotting, searing, throbbing. I was scared to take off the gas mask and expose the wound, because I was afraid to see the infection.

I knew it had to be infected. I could_ feel_ it slowly killing me. Luckily the burn on my arm wasn't infected, in fact, it was healing quite nicely. The scabbing made it uncomfortable to bend, so I held it straight at my side and used the other hand for stuff like picking up objects. Other than that it was fine.

The sun was not fine.

The sun was ridiculously hot and made everything seem fuzzy. I was in the middle of nowhere, my face was horribly wounded, and I was running on an empty tank (food wise.) On my fifth day of wandering across the country side of what I thought was New York, I fainted, either from blood poisoning, heat stroke, or just plain exhaustion.

I was walking down a paved road when it happened, wheat fields on both sides of me. My knees gave way. The midday heat encased me like a blanket and suddenly the road looked like a lovely place to sleep. _'Fuck.' _ I shut my eyes and I was unconscious before my head even smacked against the pavement.

...

I was expecting to wake up in a hospital again, like the past two times I've blacked out. I was expecting to wake up fully bandaged and on a heavy dose of pain meds.

That didn't happen.

I woke up in the back of a crappy camper-van that might've smelled like pee. Someone was driving up front and listening to horrible music. I felt around till I found the gas mask and tethered it to my belt so I wouldn't lose it.

"Don't you _dare _die in my van."

I said something to show I was awake and in pain, and not dead.

The man shouted back, "We're 'bout 20 miles till the nearest 'ospital. Won't be long now. Lucky ya aren't dead yet with tha infection. Lucky I was willing ta stop and pick up a sheila like you too, most people would'a drove on."

Whatever he really said went in through one ear and out the other, but it was something around those lines. His accent was irritating but I didn't care enough to try to figure where he was from, or even make a reply. I just writhed around the van's floor till the vehicle rolled to a stop and some paramedics carried me into the hospital.

They took my clothes and mask and gave me a hospital gown, bandaged me up, then shoved needles in me, and then tried to get a name out of me. I didn't tell them, but not many other people could fit my physical description so it couldn't have been too hard to identify me.

After a heavy dose of drugs, I slept for a week. You can guess what I dreamed about.

...

**Medical report: **

The Infection was treated just in time and the blood poisoning wasn't too bad. The arm healed perfectly and will be expected to function on a normal level with scarring kept to a minimal, though still visible. Facial trauma is highly notable and requires constant attention, and without proper treatment the infection could relapse. Patient fusses over the bandages and often tries to take them off, much to the nurse's dismay.

Vision in left eye must be tested when the patient is in a more functional state, along with current mental health.

Patient does not react well to pain medication- she suffers from hallucinative side effects. Test to make sure the medication _is_ the cause of this.

Patient is delusional. Highly aggressive. Best kept sedated.

Estimated hospitalization time is two months.

-Doctor Eli Drake of burn ward, 07/14

...

The police showed up when I was still bedridden and too drugged to tell left from right. I was told by one jackass of an officer with an over sized mustache that as soon as the hospital would allow it, I would be arrested and charged with twenty four cases of arson, and ten plus murders.

I wondered if they thought that I murdered my friend and my father. Does it count as murder if it was on accident? I almost asked, but the man kept talking and my mouth felt dry. I blocked him out, whatever he had to say I already knew or had heard before.

By using the firefighters trademark, I got blamed for all _his_ fires. The trademark had been in use for five years, so it was suspected that I had been starting these fires since I was thirteen. They expected that I was able to start all of the fires, including the ones up to one hundred miles away from where I lived. It was ridiculous, but I didn't deny it.

No one would believe me if I said that, and I had started fires, just different, unmarked ones.

And... I kinda, almost _wanted_ to be arrested. I deserved it. I was guilty and every conscious second I was reminded of this. It was all I could think about.

Sometimes, when I would gaze over to the chair next to the hospital bed, I'd see that greasy guy I ran into at fifteen. He'd smoke, stare at me a bit, and recap the situation as if I didn't know, making sure I couldn't forget what I had done even for a second.

"You're losing your mind dear." He'd finish, and the statement couldn't be truer.

Sometimes when I looked at the empty chair, I'd see my father, crying silently with his face turning away from me.

One time I can recall a pink stuffed animal- like creature holding candy and rainbows. _That_ I had no problem ignoring because it was simply too crazy and unrealistic.

Sometimes though, it'd get really bad. I'd see my firefighter, in full uniform complete with his painted gas mask. He'd be covered in soot and blood, not an inch of clear skin, just splinters, burns and bone.

The corpse only hummed various rock songs, (its) eye holes staring at nothing.

"I'm sorry."

It, I refuse to call it he, for it wasn't real, It wasn't him, far from it, the real body would look so much worse.

"God damn I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry." Nothing.

Even when my eyes grew wet and I called his (its) name, praying that my own hallucination, my own twisted imagination, would be kind enough to respond.

When I told the nurse I was having hallucinations she said it was just a side effect of the medication and the infection (which I was handling nicely). However, I wasn't so sure at this point that that was the case. Eventually, I just stopped looking at the chair, and the hallucinations mellowed so I didn't pursue it any further.

The only reason I'd look at the chair at all was to check if my mother sat in it.

Not once did my mother visit me in the hospital. She didn't call, visit, or send mail, and that was a good thing because I wouldn't have been able to face her. The less reminders of home the better. I could imagine my mother trying to pick her life back up after losing her _technically_ ex-husband and his house to fire, and her daughter to the law.

She'd be fine, I concluded. She wasn't stupid and could make it on her own, as she had been.

_**~I've cried, and you'd think I'd be better for it, but the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine the rest of my life.**_

_~Conor Oberst_

After a week and a half in the hospital I got a letter other than court information. It was from RED again, and I could only barely remember the first letter I received from them two years earlier. I shoved the envelope it in the bedpan and ignored it, never laying eyes on it again.

I regret not reading it. I regret not asking who delivered it too, but whoever did probably gave me the newspaper as well.

The newspaper was delivered anonymously. It was a report on my fire, and the headline clearly read-

**TWO DEAD IN FIRE, MORE INJURED AND ****SERIAL ARSONIST FOUND**

My breath hitched and I choked on air.

The title I could read clearly, but everything after that simply turned into what could've been Chinese for all I know. The drugs made reading small print impossible.

**TWO DEAD IN FIRE, MORE INJURED AND SERIAL ARSONIST FOUND**

I ripped the newspaper into tiny pieces. After the paper was reduced to scrap, I realized something and made a useless attempt to piece back the article as if it could still be read.

_Two dead in fire. _

I thought, _I thought__,_ that three were in the building. Didn't two firefighters go in to get my father? Am I making that up? Do I know which two died?

"Yes, you know very well who died." My hallucination spoke for me, materializing out of the air in the chair next to me. I knew that if I started to converse with these hallucinations regularly, I would officially lose all my marbles. I paid the man with shoulder length slicked back greasy hair no heed. If I ignored it long enough, it'd go away.

"Bitch, don't ignore me." He threatened. I didn't like being bullied by own head trip. I looked away and shut my eyes.

"I'm calling you." It persisted. I vowed to stop taking the pain medication.

The voice changed into one much more familiar, a voice that used to be friendly but the malice stuck. "Look at me you slut, don't pretend you don't know what you did."

I called out for a nurse.

...

After two weeks in the hospital, I decided I wanted out. It was stuffy. It smelled funny. There were no matches anywhere, and I didn't like the nurses and doctors looking at me as if I were a carrier of the plague. I can see why they didn't want to stick close to me, I had just been titled a 'serial arsonist,' but it stung none the less.

What I would've done before was just give my friend a call and he'd probably just come and sneak me out, probably bringing me a spare pair of clothes while he was at it.

I would've given anything to get out of that damned hospital gown. I would've given anything to find my gas mask too. I asked the next nurse who changed my dressings where the hell my stuff was. I think I scared her because she walked back out of the room without saying a word.

Eventually, after a couple hours of telling myself I would do it, I got up. My legs felt like jello and by head started throbbing, but it was really fine, a lot better than I had been feeling. I walked out the room and into the hallway. No one was there. The halls were empty, empty and white and silent. I chose a direction and limped that way.

I just needed to find my clothes and mask, just needed to know where they were. I found myself in the main lobby, searching through various closets with a few other patients giving me odd looks.

"Hello Si-... Uh, Miss? Can I help you?" A young male nurse from the desk asked.

I ignored him and kept on looking. I wouldn't be able to leave until I had my stuff (mainly mask). "Um, I'm not sure you should be out here, why don't I take you back to your room?"

I gave him the middle finger and walked -more like stumbled- onward.

"Ma'am I may need to call security, you're not allowed to do that."

"Where is my stuff?"

"I'll find you your stuff, just come with me."

"No, find it for me first."

"We keep all of our... clients personal possessions in the storage room 'till they are free to be released. When you leave we will give you your clothes back. Okay?"

Another nurse helped him return me to my room.

Another day passed and I was still hellbent on finding my clothes and getting out of there. I had no idea when they initially planned to release me, but when they did I wouldn't have a chance to do shit because I'd be whisked straight into a jail.

I deserved prison but I didn't want to go anymore, for various, obvious reasons that include being less comatose.

I tried escaping the hospital twice, each time making a detour to the 'storage room' where my stuff was supposed to be. Each time I got tackled, sedated, and woke up much later right back in the room.

When they say only bed rest, they mean it. I think they also believed that I was off to start a fire or murder other patients as well, so they were extra eager to catch me as soon as they saw me walking about.

The third time, I planned a bit more.

It was about noon, and a nurse had already seen to my needs. I waited until she left and I walked out of the room and searched for the nearest fire alarm. I pulled it.

The reaction was immediate. Total evacuation. I hid in one of the lavatories as the staff pushed everyone out the door, and it took awhile.

I searched the halls until I found a room labeled 'storage room.' Inside I found various clothes, and on the top shelf next to a couple oxygen tanks, I found my mask. I don't think the clothes I took were actually mine, but they fit and that was close enough. I rummaged around the storage room (which was kinda like a lost and found) and by luck I came across a lighter. It wasn't a fancy zippo or personalized lighter, no, it was just a crappy bic you'd pick up at a corner store.

But it was good enough. At this point the rest of the hospital was probably realizing this wasn't a real fire. I didn't have enough time to start something serious, but I did have enough time to grab one of the socks from the 'lost and found' and burn it. I held it close to the smoke alarm and didn't take it away till it was about all burnt up. Then I lit another sock and did the same till the smoke detector detected smoke and the sprinklers went off.

I pocketed the lighter with a sense of accomplishment. There. That would keep the fear of fire alive for at least a few more minutes.

As the chaos and evacuation continued on, I left. I squeezed past the crowd of sick people surprisingly well as they gathered outside the building and looked for smoke. And as the fire department showed up (the staff were very pissed when they found out it was a hoax) I walked down the street.

The bandages covering my face had to be a dead giveaway that I belonged in the hospital, but once I got past the mob no one tried to stop me. If any staff noticed me limping away, they didn't stop me, probably because they were scared of me.

Good. They should be. I could've started a _real _fire.

The next day, the wanted posters were already out, my face in every newspaper. I was a wanted fugitive. I think I liked it, at least at first.

_**~Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.**_

_~Euripides_

_..._

I took the bandages off myself. It was in the lady's room of some gas station, the lady next to me stared at me to make sure I was a lady, and to make sure I wasn't dying or about to mug her. I paid her no attention and only hoped she hadn't been watching the news lately.

Under the bandages was exactly what I was expecting.

More scars.

The lady, now washing her hands, still staring, gasped and offered to call an ambulance.

I denied the offer and examined my face. The left side of my face was simply more torn up even worse. The new burn overlapped the old one with dark red. It hadn't healed yet, and still should've been covered, but I didn't care enough to bother. I didn't want to touch it either, it was still swollen and scabby and it hurt like a bitch, but I washed it in the grimy gas station restroom, put on my ever useful gas mask, and left.

...

The next thing I did was go find my mother. It took me a week to get back to New York and find her. It was a week of hitch hiking and long walks, along with desperately avoiding the police. I think I had been hospitalized in Pennsylvania, a good distance away.

The problem was, I didn't know where my mother was staying, assuming she was still in New York. The only place in the whole damn city I could think to go, was home, which technically wasn't even in the city, it was on the edge and it was a pile of ash.

I remember standing in the clearing that once was my house, the yard a mess. I remember falling apart again and crying there for an hour. I also remember a car pulling up and my mother, wearing a sundress that she hadn't fit in for years, came out with a bouquet of flowers in her hand.

When our eyes met she dropped the flowers and yelled in Japanese. It took a while for her to calm down. She wiped at her eyes and I adjusted my mask.

"What are you doing back here?"

"I wanted to see you... This was the only place I could think to go to." I kicked at the charred wooden remains of my shed.

"They'll find you here."

"The police?"

"Yes! Of course! You so dense sometimes."

"Why do you care if the police find me?"

She took a long moment to answer. "Because you could get capital punishment, I don't want to know you, but I don't want you dead."

"I'm sorry."

"I told you you were going to prison." She said spitefully. "I told you, long ago."

I agreed that she had been right all along. She walked to me, took the stupid gas mask off my face and put her hand on my cheek. She eyed the new trauma. She looked me in the eye with a twisted and backwards expression, like she was trying to be disgusted but couldn't quite do it.

She always was a bad actor. She sighed. "Get in car."

I did.

She took me to her hotel room, closed all the blinds, and put a 'do not disturb' sign on the door. The first thing she did was shove ointment on my face as if I was still a little child that couldn't do it myself. She still had a motherly touch. She gave me a meal too, then forced me into the shower and gave me a new pair of clothes (a t-shirt, hoodie, panties and her only pair of jeans). They didn't quite fit, but I was thankful because the one I had been wearing stunk like rotten cheese. She washed the hospital clothes too.

Around midnight, after I napped for a long time, she woke me up and handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. "I'll be moving here. Don't visit. Don't mail. Don't call - lines will be tapped."

I nodded.

"Your father's car in parking lot, here's key. If police catch you, say you stole it."

I nodded and looked down to meet her eyes.

"You're a grown up now... Where has the time gone?" She cried and I even attempted to hug her. It didn't work, but the gesture might've been comforting. I shrugged.

I put the gas mask on again, pulled the hood over my head, and made way to the door with my extra change of clothes and a few other products my mother thought I needed. Before I left, I turned around and mumbled through the mask. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"It doesn't matter if you did it on purpose or not, you in trouble you can't get out of."

"Dad..."

"He died long before house fell. Smoke got him."

"I'm sorry." I put my hand on the doorknob.

"I don't care. Go now, don't get caught, don't be stupid - you are smart, could've gone to law school."

I scoffed. "That's a lie."

She smiled a sad smile. 「さあ、行きなさい」

「・・・さようなら、お母さん。」 I left, got into my dad's car which was much too nice for a person like me, and drove off.

_**~If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up.**_

_~Hunter S. Thompson_

Sometimes, when my emotions got real bad, or when I hadn't slept in a few days, I'd see my firefighter friend in the passenger seat of the car. Sometimes he looked like a corpse, sometimes not.

I'd turn on the radio to a station that always played one of the songs he'd liked to hum, and then ignored him- no, ignored _it. _I knew it was dangerous to acknowledge the hallucination, it wasn't healthy to call it a he, and it certainly wasn't healthy to even have hallucinations in the first place.

"If you didn't use my trademark, you wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. If you didn't use it, they wouldn't have assumed you started the other twenty-three."

"I know." There goes my no talking to the hallucinations rule.

"You don't know I'm dead."

"If you were alive then you'd be starting fires and using the trademark too, I'd see you in the newspapers." I reasoned with – ultimately – myself.

"Yeah... s'pose so." It seemed sad and I'd ignore it and it'd go away.

...

Within a year, I was number seven on the America's top most wanted list. I kept myself relative in the news by continuing my hobby, and numbering each fire I started before I left them. I never stayed in one place. Always moving, always changing the license plate on the car (by stealing others) and always being smart.

Or, as smart as I could get. There were times I'd zone out and then suddenly a whole week was gone, what I did during those weeks I have no idea. I always had a new number to mark the next fire with afterwards though.

I have whole weeks missing from my memory, several of them. Sometimes I forgot to eat or sleep too, and sometimes I'd black out and realize I was suddenly in another state. Sometimes I'd black out and come to with blood covering my hands and a body in the back seat, wrapped in white sheets and smelly to the point it was unbearable to stay in the car.

Okay, the last one only happened once, but it is still noteworthy and it scared the hell out of me because I didn't know when, or why I did it. I don't even know who I killed.

I had dozens of close calls with the police, so I thought maybe it was a cop, but I now doubt that.

By two years, I had built myself a new flamethrower. It wasn't like my old one, it was more efficient, and had a fancy compression blast, albeit it didn't get used much. At this point I was using my third car, I wouldn't use one for too long or else someone might recognize it. By year two I was on the top ten most wanted list in Canada too, though I scarcely remember staying in Canada _at all._

Whenever I had these memory gaps, I'd be followed by hallucinations as well. I definitely broke the 'no talking to the hallucinations' rule. After one particularly big fire, I got in the car and started driving. After about a mile or two, a man in a red suit materialized out of fucking air in the passenger seat and I nearly crashed the car.

"Pardon, mon ami, I did not wish to startle you."

"Who the fuck are you!?"

"I suggest you keep driving, the fire department will show up momentarily." I did just that and repeated my previous question.

"I, chère fille, am simply inztructed to keep an... eye on you. Thought I'd introduce myself." I scoffed and then treated him like any other hallucination.

"I'll tell zhe employers you may not be... a good choice." I ignored him and eventually, when I looked over, he wasn't there anymore.

I was honestly _scared_ for my own sanity. My best friend was now a flamethrower, when I thought of my face I thought of a gas mask, my hallucinations supplied nearly all my conversation, and I couldn't remember anything.

I _needed_ help.

I couldn't get it

It scared me.

I dealt with this fear like I deal with every other emotion; with a match.

...

I was twenty when I made it to the state of Texas. Texas is hot. Texas has little rain, and is very dry. Texas burns great.

Ever heard of a little town called Dianne? It's nothing but dust now. It was a tiny place, it's police force consisted of two men and it's fire department was the next town over's fire department.

The Dianne incident is what finally scored me as the number one most wanted in America. It was also my one hundredth fire. And it is also what got me caught.

I was camping out in a field a few towns over, sleeping in the car. Suddenly someone was screaming for me to get out of the car and hold my hands up. I was caught. My freedom burned out like a matchstick. I got out of the car and had twenty guns pointed at my chest, and I knew it was over. I wasn't even that upset.

One hundred is a damn fine number.

"Look's like you caught me." I said more to myself that anyone else. I hoped they'd just shoot me so we could skip the whole 'justice system' drama. They did no such thing.

But still, one fucking hundred is nothing to shabby. My friend would be proud.

...

I was tried within four weeks. I was found guilty of 100 cases of arson and 83 cases of manslaughter, along with countless damage done to private and public property, disrupting the peace, and a thousand other things. I don't remember doing or committing most of these but I don't doubt I did every single thing they pinned on me.

83 deaths, and I only remember three of them. That Greasy Man (who wasn't counted on the list), my father, and my friend. 83. It felt like someone shot me with 83 bullets. And then it felt like nothing.

The court lasted two days, it seemed like twenty minutes.

I hadn't even tried to use the insanity plea, because capital punishment sounded better than life in an insane asylum. I was placed on the death row, and I was the only woman on death row. I did not see my mother, or any other visitors. For awhile, I did not even feel. Not a thing, it was a comfortable numb.

I turned twenty-one while on death row, and I didn't notice. I didn't notice how the hallucinations came more often, or how they got weirder and weirder to the point that they might've come out of children's cartoons. I hated it. All of it. The things I hated most were the food, the color of the walls (grey) and the colors of our clothes (orange), and of course the absence of my mask and flamethrower. Sometimes a few of the asshole guards thought they could get some easy sex from me, and damn they are pushy. If you're a guard, you can get away with anything, and they knew it, but I wasn't a scared fifteen year old then, and I was able to handle myself a little (a lot) better.

I still hope they burn in hell.

Several times I tried making a noose out of my bed sheets, I tried choking on my food, I tried to drown myself in the shower rooms, but nothing worked, I couldn't end it. I had to wait for our justice system to do it for me.

I would've been desperate enough to kill myself with a spoon if I didn't get that life saving visit.

Her name was Miss Pauling. She was young, and pretty, dressed in purple (which looked like a beautiful change from orange) and wore thick rimmed glasses. She looked at me like a person, and upon first laying eyes on her I decided I liked her.

"Hello-" (my name) "-I'm here to offer you a job." I couldn't fucking believe it. "And this job would... save you from your current predicament."

"How?" I asked from the other side of the glass.

"Leave that to me, all you have to know is that RED has a large sum of power and money. And Saxton Hale." I just stared at her.

"All you would have to do it set stuff on fire, and we'll help you escape and give a whole new identity so you can get on the right of the law."

"How?"

"Just say yes, we'll get you out of here to sign a contract and you'd work for RED, fighting BLU."

I hated to sound like a broken record, but I had to ask again "HOW?"

"Don't worry about that, I'm offering to pay you to play with fire." She smiled sweetly, intoxicatingly, and I found myself saying "hell yeah."

...

And suddenly my schedule changed, within three days I was to be sent to another prison.

I was cuffed and put into a van and it drove away and I never arrived at that 'other prison.' The back door of the van opened and Miss Pauling held out her hand to me out. "Welcome to RED Pyro."

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**Thanks for reading, hope you liked it. Next chapter will be up at some point next week. For anyone who is wondering, the Japanese dialog towards the middle of the story is simply the mother and daughter saying goodbye. Did anyone like the sniper and spy guest appearances? Yes, no?**

** Either way, have a fantastic day.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, thank you all greatly for the support, soooo sorry this chapter is so late. School happened. The end of the year is tough. This chapter is a bit shorter than the last two mega chapters but it seems like a decent length to me. **

**Warning: Shius my proof reader didn't see this chapter, expect some errors. If you see anything horribly wrong, tell me.**

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_**~In this bright future you can't forget your past.**_

~_Bob Marley_

Ms. Pauling handed me my a pen and slid the contract to me. She sat across from me on the other side of the table, eyeing me as if I'd deny the offer. We were in RED headquarters, which was my last stop before Tuefort. We had spent the last hour discussing my contract, discussing the exact details, how much room I had to breathe, my pay, all that stuff. We had finally reached an agreement.

My contracted lasted for five years, at the end of the five years I could choose to renew it or be released. Or, they could release me before that if I became a nuisance to RED. I worked for little more than minimum wage, (with a hefty Christmas check each year if I did good) and I worked for up to six months at a time.

The part that made the job worthwhile was the fact that when, or if, RED decided I was an important asset, which could take anywhere from a month to two years, I would be given a new identity. An identity free of charges, free of problems with the law, a fresh start. I could be a new person.

I could be a better person.

Ms. Pauling would release documents saying I was put to death in the electric chair, and anyone who could say otherwise was sent a fat check to keep their fucking mouth shut. She said that I was a big enough name that the news of my death might hit the press and media. The world would think I was_ dead. _

Even my mother, who ended up god-fucking-knows where, would think I was dead.

And I would be a nobody until RED gave me some 'official' documents that said otherwise. After I received my identity, I could ask for a raise, or asked to be released from duty early.

My contract stated that everything is very hush-hush as well. NO blabbing to anyone who wasn't a comrade, and even then I should be cautious about what comes out my mouth.

By signing the document I agreed to all of that. I looked to Ms. Pauling, who expression remained neutral.

"You'll take care of everything?"

"Everything, and then some. RED will even set you up with a doctor to look into your mental health, covered by your new health insurance."

I hated doctors. I cringed at that but I nodded anyway, knowing I could use help. I signed the contract and agreed to fight in some everlasting personal war between two monopoly companies over worthless land in the middle of New Mexico.

...

"So you know the other eight on the teams? The other classes?" Ms. Pauling asked as we waited for a train to come and pick me up. Several bags sat at our feet, including one holding my flamethrower, the one the police confiscated once they found me. RED had dug it up somehow. In another bag, sat my new uniform. I hadn't had a chance to look at it yet.

"Yes Miss Pauling." I told her like I would tell my mother.

"And you've been debriefed on the objectives you'll be expected to complete?"

I nodded and adjusted my mask. They found that for me too.

"You know of respawn?"

"Roughly."

"Pyro" -that's my new name- "You are aware that the missions can last for months and that brakes might be few and far between," she continued before I could nod. "And, you know you'll be the only woman on the team. It's up to you how you introduce yourselves to the team, but some of the men might be a little..." I filled in the blanks.

"Okay. I'll manage." Ms. Pauling handed me my stuff, and within minutes I said goodbye and boarded the first train to come to the station. I waved back to Ms. Pauling, who I quickly branded branded as a friend though I doubt she did the same for me, and she probably waved back. I didn't look to check.

I was probably the only person on the train besides the conductor, who I didn't see at any point. Instead of passengers, the train carried cargo for the other RED mercenaries. It was six full cars of food, ammo, basic necessities, weapons, and various crates. The crates had the class names on them, all eight of the other classes, and something told me that they were personal. I didn't touch them.

For the first hour and a half of the ride I fiddled with a lighter and tried to calm my emotions. I was nervous. I was excited. And I was happy. It had been a long time sense I was happy. I didn't know what to do with myself, or if I should feel guilty about feeling happy about getting a job where _I kill people_.

The lighter in my fingers flickered on and off a few more times before I decided it wasn't helping and put it away. A few minutes later I got bored and took it out again. The lighter in my hand I had found in my father car a few years ago when my mother gave it to me. It was a zippo of course, with my fathers name long since rubbed off. I suppose it was the only thing I had left of him, and even though with every year the where and tear get greater and the value drops, it still managed to be my favorite.

I wondered briefly if what became of my mother. If she remarried. If she possibly had another child or two. If she is still even alive. I laughed after that last one, you couldn't kill that woman with an axe. Not that I tried.

I wondered if she was happy. If she ever thought of me. I flipped the lighter closed and put it in one of my bags.

In one of the bags sitting at my feet, was my new uniform. It was red and made of a thick rubber, it was surprisingly heavy for it's size, and the important part was it was fire-retardant. It came with boots and gloves, and a new gas mask. I put on the uniform, leaving the mask off and decided I liked it.

I liked the way it was baggy. It was possibly made for a person a few sizes bigger than myself. I liked the way it didn't show off any 'womanly curves' I may or may not have had, and I liked the way it covered all of my skin (with the mask) and hid all of my scarring, not like I was ashamed of it, but because a few of the other mercenaries might want to know how I got them and I don't particularly like discussing it.

The uniform came with a new mask as well, and upgrade from my old one. It covered my whole head, unlike my other one which was held by straps and only really covered my face. The eye holes were bigger and the filters wider, which would be more convenient for me. I was reluctant to change from my old mask, it held some sentimental value, but I put on the new one and stuffed the old one in my bag so I wouldn't lose it.

The train screeched like a bat out of hell and rolled to a shuddering stop. I grabbed my bags and opened the door with my foot because my hands were full. A blast of heat hit me, like stepping into a sauna.

I looked around.

Everything was desert. Miles upon miles of sand and tumbleweeds under a steel colored sky. The only other thing besides the endless landscape and the train, was a man and an old ford pick up truck.

"Welcome to Tuefort."

_**~Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success.**_

_~Henry Ford_

"Go ahead and put that right in th' truck," the man stated as he tipped his cowboy hat to me and motioned to the bags in my hands. "The train won't be stayin' long, we need ta get all of our supplies outta there before it leaves." He adjusted a pair of goggles, and got to work. I noticed the handgun strapped to his belt and wondered why he had it. There would be no one to fight out here.

I stood uselessly for a moment before putting my stuff in the back of the truck and helping him unload the stuff from the train. Most of the boxes were horribly heavy and a few we needed to both carry, but after a few minutes we packed everything that would fit into the back of the pick up and closed the tailgate. Not a minute later did the train start back up and slowly move away, picking up speed every ten yards and disappearing down the tracks.

"The tracks don't reach our base, so every week Heavy or Demo an' me drive out here to pick up the supplies." The man started to get into the drivers seat of the truck before stopping and walking back over to me, staring in the lenses of my new mask. Then he took off the goggles and extended his hand. "Well pardon me, don't believe I introduced myself. I'm the engineer, Engie for short. It's pleasure to meet ya, you can call me Dell if ya really like, but most of the boys jus' go by their class name."

I shook his hand and said I was the pyro, but it came out a jumbled mess of syllables. He smiled to himself and got in the car. I got in the passenger seat. The engineer told me a bit about the war we were in and drove away from the train tracks into nothing, and I started to get worried. Engie was a good conversationalist and his words (though I can't remember what he was saying) were distracting, but not distracting enough to make me forget about the gun at his waist.

Was he driving me out into the middle of nowhere to shoot me?

No. I was being paranoid. I was good at that. I would've taken out a lighter to take my mind of it, but they were all in my bags in the truck bed, and I'm sure Engineer would've thought that really weird anyway.

Not a minute later a little dot showed up on the horizon and I stopped fretting about it. "That's our base." As the dot grew bigger the more anxious I became. We arrived. Engineer parked the truck behind the base and helped me with my bags, he said the rest of the stuff could stay there for a while until the other guys felt like getting it.

You can understand my horror when I realized the base was a giant _wooden_ structure. While walking through the pretty narrow halls, on the dry hay lining the floor, I realized just how difficult it would be not to catch the base on fire. They expected me to run through these narrow halls wielding a flamethrower, while this was one of the easiest places to burn I'd seen in a while.

"Right this way buddy, th' others are jus' upstairs." I followed Engineer through a courtyard and up some rickety stairs, then down some halls. The whole base wasn't wooden, the inside contained white brick in places, but overall the whole thing would be a nuisance.

Note to self, don't set the base on fire.

We reached a section that must've been the living quarters and Engineer yelled for the others.

And suddenly there was a man in a helmet yelling in my face, a kid to my left talking faster than light speed, and what only could've easily been a giant standing in front of me with a judgmental look hanging on boredom.

I can't tell you exactly what any of them said, but the one who yelled like a banshee was going on about my association with Nazis and the other was getting into some rather personal questions. The giant scratched his chin.

The man in the goggles spoke up. "This is our new pyro boys, 'bout time we got one too. Pyro, this here's Heavy Weapons Guy-"

"-Heavy."

"Scout and Soldier." I could guess who was who. I said hello but I suppose it didn't sound like hello.

"Could you repeat that son?" I shrugged.

"You are leetle man. Where is weapon, leetle man?" I would've answered but another stormed in the room, demanding to know 'vat all the rucuz waz about,' then another holding a bottle of booze with eyepatch, and the room was filled with more people.

And it was chaotic. Jesus Fuck do these guys know how to bicker and argue and be _loud._

Engineer: That's medic over there, he won't bug you if you don't bug him-

Scout: I'm Scout-

Medic: -He knows zat Scout, zis is Demo.

Demo: Nice ta meet ya lad, 'bout time ye showed up, we been needen a pyro for a 'ong time now.

Soldier: Are you a full blooded american? I won't trust a COMMIE BASTARD to cover me on MY team-

Someone: SOLDIER!

Scout: I wanna talk!

Demo: An' no one wants ta 'ear it.

_Too many people. _

Heavy: Leetle fireman must show weapon.

Soldier: If you ignore me one more time, you'll get 20 extra laps to run tomorrow Private!

Engineer: We don't actually run laps-

Scout: I do-

Demo: Only cause yoo need ta practice running away! _His breath smelled of booze._

Scout: Buddy, I'm a f-

Engineer: Yes, we know Scout.

_A few seconds of silence and it was like a godsend, but then gone again._

Medic: Herr Pyro, I have your file, it iz mostly blank, you must come with me tomorrow and ve'll fix zat.

Heavy: You _vill _go with doctor.

Engineer: Boy, why don't you come with me and we'll get you situated...

My heart pounded in my ears. I tensed. At least they were starting to pick up on this before it was too late. I didn't like crowded places and I didn't really care for much talking and I certainly didn't like everyone talking at once, not necessarily even at me. Soldier started yelling again, and captured most of my attention.

Then a man in pinstripes and a ski mask came in the room, followed by a unenthusiastic tall fellow with sun glasses.

I looked right past the tall fucker to the other. I remembered this man in pinstripes, and it was clear by the pompous look in his eyes he remembered me. He stared at me smugly, and I stared at him. The room fell silent with the tension.

"..."

"Nice to meet you, mon ami." Smug Bastard.

"You're real." I stated. _"You're fucking real." _I thought myself _completely _insane because of this guy, and it turns out he was real, not a freaking hallucination.

"Could you repeat zat?"

Dammit.

"You were in my car, you were the- You're real, I, I thought you were a hallucination, god damn you're real."

"You're going to have to speak up son." Soldier said. I groaned, but it is probably for the best they couldn't hear me.

The pinstriped man smiled dismissed himself and walked away, stating he had something to do. Engineer informed me that that was Spy, and he gets on everybody's nerve at some point.

...

I was introduced to the sniper, who seems a bit like a cranky introvert, but who am I to judge? We didn't say anything to each other, then I was checked into respawn, and I moved into my room. Engie showed it to me. At least we each had our own room, if I had to share with anybody I would kill them.

"Now I know everything must be a bit hectic now, the team are an odd bunch an' all, but don't worry you'll fit in soon, Scouts new too, he's only been here a week. How 'bout you come eat dinner with us?"

Dinner didn't sound like something I intended to attend, but I was hungry. I followed Engineer to the kitchen and fixed a plate of re-heated stew.

"Ya gonna eat with us brotha?"

I shook my head and mumbled an excuse.

"No one can hear a damn thing ya mutter through that freaking mask, why don't ya just take it off man?"

"I don't want to." He understood that part at least.

A couple of the guys, Engineer and Soldier I think, said they'd find me a couple of other weapons in the morning. I was told by the German man I'd get a check up (which I fully intended to skip) tomorrow, and I dismissed myself to my room and contemplated eating the re-heated stew. I locked the door, double checking it twice to insure that the only other ones who would be getting in the room were my own mental head trips.

And real ones, not that god damn Spy, pretending to be a hallucination.

I let out a sigh of relief I didn't know I was holding. _Fuck all of this shit. _

It was too many people to meet at once and I struggled to tie all the faces to the names.

I took off the suit, and the gas mask, which I was liking a great deal. It hid everything. I unpacked my bags, throwing what little possessions I had all about in an attempt to make the room less foreign. It was certainly nicer than a jail cell, but the blank wooden walls and floors didn't make it seem like anything that would belong to me, whereas the jail cell had felt _almost _homey when I left it.

I hadn't felt really at home sense I left the nest at eighteen, but at one point the cell felt close.

Air seeped through the one window (which was cracked and had a nice view of endless desert) in the room, and even though it was closed, the room was hot. There was nothing I could do to stop the hot air from entering the room. I accepted it. My room was just another sauna.

And, don't fucking forget, I had eight strangers, half of whom might be complete wack jobs, sleeping in the same building right down the hall. It unnerved me.

I collapsed into the bed and covered myself with the thin scratchy sheets, and ignored the thoughts that reminded me that I possessed a flamethrower again, (though I'd have to assemble it) and I was in the middle of a dry desert with no one around to catch me for miles, in a flammable wooden base that wouldn't even need any promoting except a match to catch.

Such thoughts weren't healthy, I told myself. They were straight up homicidal. They weren't right, but that didn't stop me from thinking such thoughts.

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**Hope you enjoyed this chapter though it isn't all that exciting. **

**A special thanks to everyone of you _fabulous_ people for reading, please drop me a review and have a fantastic day. **


	8. Chapter 8

**I want to thank you all for the support again. Thanks for all the comments, favs and follows. I am currently at a awesome review number to chapter ratio (over 6 per chapter, prior to chapter 8). I'm close to 50 comments and I have all of you lovely people to thank for it.**

**~Proofread by the lovely Shius.**

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_**~Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value. **_

_~Albert Einstein_

The gun felt unnaturally heavy in my hands and the metal felt comfortingly cold in the mid-morning heat. My gloved fingers shook as they loaded the shells. I looked at the wooden targets standing fifteen feet ahead.

"Jus' point and fire, it's real hard to miss your target with a shotgun, but a fair bit of warnin' - it kicks." Engineer said as he leaned against the fence with the Heavy and the Soldier.

I fired at a blue wooden cutout of a Medic. A piece flew out of its shoulder.

"Again!"

I emptied the other five shots on the six targets set up. Each time my shoulder bruised a little more.

"I have five year old nieces that shoot better than you maggot!"

"Haven't ever shot a gun before, partner?"

I shook my head.

"Leetle fireman mustn't fear, shoot well soon."

Earlier that day I was shown the supply room and I picked out two weapons, a shotgun and a fire ax. I had also shown Heavy my flamethrower, something he had been wanting to see since I first arrived. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or impressed.

Then Soldier insisted I shoot the gun for him.

It was embarrassing. It was already ridiculously hot and the suit was my own personal microwave. It was too hot too soon. To make matters worse, the three members of my team stood by the fence watching me shoot, already doubting my usefulness.

And like old times, the Greasy man with girly hands -who wasn't even fucking real anymore- stood a few paces behind, critiquing my every movement.

I just didn't look at him, no, I just didn't look at _it_, and ignored _its_ words.

Awesome second day. Fucking fantastic. I loaded the shells into the chamber, handling them as if they were made of glass.

Soldier came over and ripped the shotgun from my hands before I could even point in the right direction to fire. With effortless precision he aimed the gun with one hand and walked in a straight line, hitting each one of the six targets in the head without looking.

My jaw dropped, Engie rolled his eyes, Heavy frowned, and the hallucination chuckled darkly.

He lifted his helmet to look me in the eye and I've never been so thankful that the lenses were tinted. "Manage to do THAT and you MIGHT get out of here by lunch time Cupcake." Soldier handed the shotgun back. I loaded and emptied it with slightly better results.

"You shoot better with your eyes open, Sweetheart. Now, would you like that gun in pink?" The Hallucination asked. I ignored it but ignoring it didn't seem to do as much as it used too.

I was directed to shoot from a farther distance and I emptied six shells into six new targets (Heavy replaced them so there would be more than woodchips to shoot at). Engineer came over and gave me a couple of pointers - he seemed to be a good sharpshooter. He took out his pistol and shot at the targets with it, but I believe that was just for show.

"Pyro will get better, takes time, I will help if you want." Heavy put a gigantic hand on my shoulder, showing me we were done for the day. We went inside but the building wasn't much cooler.

...

I skipped lunch, and I almost skipped my appointment with the doctor. Around two Heavy came and sniffed me out, demanding I go see Medic. Heavy is not a character I would want to argue or disobey.

I told myself I really needed to have a talk with the Medic, more for my mental health than anything else. Heavy, who really seemed like a nice-enough guy despite his poor English and bear like physical traits, led me to the medical office.

First, let me say that Medic's lab is a creepy place. The tiles are covered in a thick grime that won't wash off, and the equipment looks like something from Frankenstein. I was directed to a seat and the Medic closed the door, leaving the two of us in there, alone except for half a dozen white birds that seemed to have free rein over the room. _'How sanitary.' _I shooed one off my shoulder and I'm pretty sure it hissed at me.

"Archimedes, zats not how ve treat our guests!" The little bird perched itself on the doorway and watched us.

Really fucking creepy.

Medic looked at me expectantly. "..."

"..."

"Well, off vith the suit Herr Pyro. The quicker ve are started the quicker ve are done."

_How about no._ Silence hung in the air like dead weight.

"How elze can I perform a physical?"

I shrugged. I really didn't need a physical.

"Can you at least take off zhat mask so you can anzwer zhe questions?"

_God I hate doctors. _

"_Schweinehund__."_ He said to one of the birds. The Medic, who had a kind fatherly face without smile lines and cold eyes, sighed to show his discontent. "Herr Pyro, please, it would make communication significantly easier, and nozhing has to leave zhis room."

After a few minutes of staring, I reached to take off the mask.

He didn't act surprised by my appearance. If anything he looked bored. In fact, during our entire conversation he didn't so much as bat an eye. He was the very_ image _of professional.

He asked me some questions.

I answered some questions.

I didn't answer anything personal, just stuff like my age, weight, if I have a history of drug or alcohol abuse, if I had asthma or diabetes, if I was a smoker, yada yada. I suppose I looked androgynous enough that he had to ask me my sex as well, though I'm not sure if that was a good thing or not.

I wouldn't tell him my name, or how I got my facial scars, or where I was from, or why I joined RED. He honestly didn't need to know any of that. When he asked where I came from prior to being picked up by RED, I did tell him _sparingly_ about the prison.

He nodded along, as though he expected me to elaborate. He wasn't surprised when I didn't.

The only bad part about the 'check up' was the fact that Medic had not once asked me of mental health. When I had seen other doctors in my childhood, that was the very first thing they ever asked.

The graying man filled out a file on the table and sent a warning look to a rather rambunctious bird who wanted to play with a needle on the far counter. "I've noticed zhat you favor one of your legs, shall I take a look at it?"

"It's fine."

"Is it?" He stood up from his chair, rising to his full height. He's pretty damn tall, though he's got nothing on the sniper and Heavy. A bird landed on his shoulder.

"I injured it when I was a teenager, it's a... psychological limp. It isn't a problem when I don't think about it." I stood up as well.

"I see, anyzing else I should know of?"

I _should've _confessed to my overbearing hallucinations, or my memory gaps, or my slightly psychotic behavior. I didn't. "The team doesn't need to know a thing about me," I stated, though I managed to make it sound like a threat.

"I agree. Now, _Herr_ Pyro, get out of my office." He ushered me out the door coldly.

_Don't need to tell me twice. _I left the door clicked shut behind me.

"How'd it go?" A familiar voice asked me. I turned to see my friend, the only one I ever had, leaning against the wall in his fireman's uniform. He looked as good as he did the day he died (like shit yet at the same time charming).

"...Fine."

"Yeah?"

It seemed so real, yet it wasn't. Life was too fucking cruel. I didn't look at him - at it- and I walked away. It was always the worst when I hallucinated about him. I could deal with the greasy man, I almost enjoyed the little balloon creature I saw when I had a bit too much to drink, but I loathed when I saw the Firefighter. I always broke the 'no talking to hallucinations rule' and the 'no addressing them as he's or she's rule.' Whenever I saw it I always melted into a puddle of memories and guilt with an urge to burn things.

There wasn't anything to burn there.

I should've turned around and marched right into the Medic's mad infirmary, demanding help, but I didn't.

_**~In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.**_

_~Ernest Hemingway_

The next eight days I was trained along with Scout (who had been there for only a week longer than me). Scout was young, only nineteen, and he was full of energy. He wasn't actually tall, taller than me sure but still not touching any skyscrapers. He was thin enough that without an object to scale you would think him above six foot. He gave the expression 'bouncing off the walls' a whole new meaning.

His mouth ran a mile a minute and his feet were never far behind.

"Hey Py, while we're waiting for Heavy to train us with our melee's, let me tell you my **entire life story.**" "Fuck this shit, I ain't training." "Pyro, my man, watch this," or, when we were pinned against each other and about to get our (his) first taste of respawn, "Hey Chucklehead, you want to go? I'm a force of nature brotha'." It was annoying and I didn't know how to tell him to fuck off, and even if I knew how to I wouldn't because I really didn't want to be enemies with anyone on my team.

I was the team's first pyrotechnician and he was the team's second scout. The last one retired. BLU team had had a Pyro for a long time now, couple years or more, though I'd been told BLU Scout was new as well.

We were debriefed on nearly everything, and trained with all three of our weapons. I had a little extra training with the shotgun, which no longer seemed to kick like it use to. We were told our 'class duties.' I basically spycheck a lot and steal the intelligence when Scout's either dead, dying, or too occupied dicking around to do it. I was offensive but at the same time - the way Soldier phrased my job - it seemed like I was suppose to babysit Engie's sentries too.

I spent eight days with a complete crackpot of characters and I barely spoke to them. Why should I? I spent most of the time alone, or next to alone, in my room, the exceptions being when I was being trained, when I had to find food, or when it was at night and everyone was asleep.

At the prison, I didn't have any windows in or around my cell. Not one. I'd gone months at a time without seeing the sky, or the sun or any stars. I can recall three times I even broke out of my cell, where I'd just try to sneak outside to steal a peek at the sky.

At Teufort, I'd wait till everyone was asleep and go climb on top of the roof to look at the stars and I'd just breath it in. During the day the sky was always a grayish-blue, boring and cloudless, but at night it was amazing. There was no light pollution and no one around to ruin the sight. I could remember a time when I would die for a view like this.

It was by far the prettiest thing in my ugly life. Nights like that, when the temperature was only seventy degrees and the sky was stunning, and I could just sit out for hours and no one would bother me. Nights like that were beautiful.

I don't call anything beautiful. Around three in the morning I'd get tired and I'd walk back to my room, passing Engie's machine shed which always had lights on inside no matter what the hour was.

...

Eight days passed in the blink of an eye, and suddenly it was time to fight. We gathered in the supply room waiting for some announcer lady to tell us when it was time to start.

Sniper stood with Spy, both silently bickering. Soldier shouted the most obscure directions and Demo drained the last of his bottle before swearing he was "Almost sober." Medic warmed up his medigun on a battle-clad heavy, and Scout stood by me as if we had some sort of bond (he probably thought we would be friends because we were the newest) while I stood by Engineer because I wanted some sort of bond with him because I had literally no friends and everyone else seemed to be poor candidates.

The mad lady's voice boomed through the intercom. The team rushed out.

...

I spent most of the first day walking the hallways of my base, the first person I ran into was a scout, the BLU one. It was a she, which had me momentarily surprised, but she died like a dog all the same. When she saw me she pulled out a pistol and tried to shoot me down. When that didn't work she simply tried to run past me. I set her on fire and tagged her with the shotgun but in the end she ended up running in front of a sentry.

Speaking of sentries, I had decided_ never_ to get in front of a BLU one, ever. It really was a death machine that would take some precision to take out. I wondered briefly how many times a day Engie even died. He had a nice set up.

Engie looked at the girl who had sprinted past his sentry. She couldn't have been more than twenty, like our scout, and I could tell by the way he pulled on his hardhat and turned away with a stony face that Engie felt kinda bad about having to kill this young woman - almost a kid - on the field. I sent him a thumbs up to check if everything was okay. He sent one back and waved me off. He'd get over it. I already had.

She was picked up by respawn and running through our halls again fifteen minutes later.

...

Even though I was wandering around inside the base and out of the sun, it was still like an oven inside my suit. I could feel my head growing fuzzy as sweat dripped out of the filter of the mask. I only wore my underwear and a t-shirt under my uniform but it was still too hot.

"You look like you've been fried in a skillet, and insert my name, what happened to the gas mask I gave you?"

My blood ran cold. It was that voice. It was him. He wasn't _fucking alive_, why did my mind have to do this to me?How long had it been since I heard him (or anyone) say my name? I longed to answer him, but instead I spun around with the flamethrower shooting flames in a circle around me as if my hallucination would catch fire and go away. It didn't, though a spy shouted loudly and appeared out of thin air and tried to run away, while on fire.

I killed the spy and laughed while he burned. He wore simply the most flammable suits. I watched the pinstripes turn from blue to black to ashes and then looked around to make sure no one had been watching. I kicked at the corpse a bit before I decided to go check on Engie's nest and pick up some ammo from his dispensers.

I found him, climbed the stairs in the courtyard to go meet him, and the sentry announced my presence with a beep. _I did NOT want to get shot down by that thing. _Engineer pulled out his shotgun and pointed it at me as well; standard behavior when you think someone's a spy. He cocked it and waited. I froze and waited. And waited.

He greeted me with a "Howdy" and put away the gun before I slunk up to his dispenser and bathed in its healing qualities. I didn't even know I was hurt but suddenly I was better.

"How's it goin' out there?"

"It's fucking hot."

"Well, I'm doing fine too."

I don't think he heard me correctly.

"Been to respawn yet?"

"No."

He chuckled. "It's only a matter a time."

I shrugged.

"It's pretty calm today, between me an' Demo we got the defense jus' fine."

"Demo?" I hadn't seen him all day.

"He's been downstairs in th' basement all day. We have a schedule for which one o' us guards the intelligence. It's his turn." I nodded, he continued. "Why don't you go help outside of th' base?"

"Okay."

...

One thing you should know; Tuefort is built on the only pool of water in the entire fucking desert. RED and BLU built a sewer on top of it. Yep. We don't draw our drinking water from this pool, or water for cooking. RED and BLU made it into a sewer. Across this sewer, is a wooden bridge, on the other side of the bridge is BLU's base. The BLU base is just like ours, just a bit nicer and made of cement and brick. A fence encloses us.

Once I found the water I felt like marching right back into the base and being permanent defense. I would've done just that too, if Scout wasn't running across the bridge as if his ass was on fire, yelling like a character in a horror movie with a blue briefcase strapped to his back.

"Py! Soldier coming, cover me!" I ran across the bridge to him without thinking as the BLU soldier jumped of the sniper deck.

I said something like "I got you" or "GO GO GO YOU DUMBASS" to Scout as I took footing on the bridge, right over a large amount of water, and stood to protect his scrawny ass.

Then the Soldier fired a rocket and Scout exploded into a million tiny pieces.

And suddenly I was full of bullet holes, on my knees and then blown up as well.

I woke up in respawn.

Waking up after you think - or know - you just died is always an experience, it takes a long time to get used to. I ran my hands down my body just to make sure everything was there and then followed Scout out of the white respawn room and back to the front lines.

And I died. And he died. And I died again and again and again and he didn't do any better. I was killed by their heavy once, their Soldier twice, their Demo twice, and after that I just stopped keeping track.

Around every corner was a sticky bomb, or a bullet, or some rocket flying at your face. And it was hot. Neither Scout nor I got our hands on the intelligence again that day.

Our teammates coached Scout and me the best they could, but that would only work for a bit before someone blew up again, or got shot in the head, or found a knife in their back.

This war was hell. It was all sorts of fucking insane and dear god was it a meat grinder.

_**~You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake. **_

_~Jeanette Rankin_

I limped back with Medic's arm slung over my shoulder and my flamethrower, my baby, dragging behind me in the dirt. At some point during the last ten minutes, before BLU team won and the battle was over, Medic was separated from the group and healed me while I attempted to beat a heavy to death with an ax. We were full of bullets but we were making it back alive.

"Thank you Herr Pyro." he looked paler than a ghost and he was wearing a lot more red than I remembered.

I waved Scout down and he ran forth to help us. Medic slung his other arm around Scout's shoulder. We walked him to the base and into the courtyard where we propped him up against a dispenser Engie hadn't had a chance to take down yet.

The team slowly gathered around, finally being able to relax. The sky was the dull boring grey it always was before the stars came out.

I leaned against the dispenser but didn't try to hog it because the Medic needed it more, and tried to take all the weight of my bad leg - it was hurting in a way it hadn't hurt in years, and the heat was to blame. I longed to rush to my room, take off the mask and sleep for decades.

Demo opened a bottle of scrumpy and Medic got up and brushed himself off. Engie silently put the dispenser away. Sniper appeared by the doorway and Spy literally appeared close by. Heavy came. Soldier came.

And we were all silent.

I watched the sky and waited for it to get pretty, for all the nice colors to come out. The team was still silent. I was good at silence, really, but it was one of those days when my thoughts were dark enough that hearing something else would've been helpful

"..."

"Well, If I need ta be th' one ta say it than 'ell. We just goot our asses whooped." Demo, the unsuspected drunk voice of reason.

"We might've WON if the two new MAGGOTS stayed alive long enough to AT LEAST cover me because it is clear they are incapable of getting the intelligence! I've seen potted plants fight better than you, all of you! Those BLU hippies beat us and it is only logical that-"

"Shush boy, no one needs to hear it."

"…"

My first day of fighting didn't go too well. I was shot at, blown up, shot at again, and decapitated, but at least I didn't need to take a swim, I didn't run into a enemy sentry, and I the only time I ran into the other Pyro was when he was carrying the Intel back to his base. He didn't stay to prove how much better than me he, or she, or it, was.

"We'll do better next time." Scout spoke up, most likely speaking for the two of us.

Spy lit a cigarette. I almost asked him for one.

"It was just your first time, it'll take awhile to get used to this kinda thing." Sniper said. My ears twitched.

"We blame loss on everybody. Everybody did bad, we do good tomorrow, but now, we go eat."

...

After the late dinner I went up on the roof. I didn't wait till everybody went to sleep, I couldn't wait that long. Stargazing had become my little pastime when I couldn't burn something when I really needed to. For a person with the job of lighting fuckers on fire you'd think I wouldn't feel the need to burn things anymore.

Wrong.

I especially did then, after my day's achievement. My performance had been a fucking disgrace. And I knew it. Everyone knew it. All of RED team and all of BLU team - I bet their pyro had been laughing his ass off at how bad I did compared to him.

I stayed on that roof and gazed at the stars for hours, thinking. Just thinking, I wasn't thinking pleasant thoughts. I rarely did anymore. I took off my mask figuring everyone was asleep by then and no one would bother coming up to the roof if they were awake.

I let it roll to the side. The sky was a little cloudy.

"Hey Campfire!" A voice sounded from the ground. "Ya going' ta spend all night up there all by your lonesome?"

"Yes!" I scrambled to put the mask back on.

"Get down 'ere son, that ain't no way to spend your evenin's."

I climbed down. Engie stood in his normal work attire minus the gloves, hat, goggles and knee pads. He had a handgun strapped to his waist, but I didn't think a damn thing about it this time, because everyone carries a gun around here. He gave me a pat on the back and invited me to keep him company in his workshop for a bit. I couldn't tell if he pitied me or genuinely wanted my company.

"No thanks, I have... Things to do." I _said._ "Why yes that'd be lovely, thank you." He _heard_.

He led me to his shed and my feet followed, a metal building with rust creeping up all sides and a light that was almost too bright. It was a decent sized place, yet so crowded all that the space did next to nothing. A tiny sentry sat in the corner, beeping occasionally. Wood shavings acted as a carpet and blueprints as wallpapers. It smelled of iron and grease.

I loved it. It reminded me of that shed I had when I was a teenager. I didn't know why I was in there however, and though I wanted to be friends with the Engineer I didn't like how we were alone and I was unarmed while he had a gun.

_He won't use __it__on__ you__,__ fuckface. _I told myself.

I sat down on a crate and Engineer offered me a beer. I refused, seeing as though I was one of the people who got drunk too easily. He opened a beer for himself and sat down on a bar stool by his workbench. I fiddled with a cheap lighter. We could've been sitting there for twenty minutes before either of us said anything.

"I'd love to get ahold of your flamethrower, it really does look to be a marvel of ingenuity, I-"

I can sniff out pointless small talk from a mile away and could sense some upcoming bullshit. "What do you want?" My voice was likely the coldest thing in the desert.

For the first time in nine days he understood what I said. He put down the bottle of beer by a cup of screws and looked me in the eye as best he could. "I don't want anythang of you, I just noticed how you spend your nights and figured I could show some common courtesy and let you in 'ere for some company and what not. Is that going to be a problem?" Engineer's voice was probably the second coldest thing in the desert.

I was a bit taken back but no one could possibly tell. "No sir." I don't know why I called him sir, it just rolled off the tongue. He took a drink and I continued to play with a lighter.

"It gets a bit noisy 'round the base sometimes. I wouldn't mind if you use my workshop as a place to get away to every now an' then. It's a bit nicer than the roof." He remarked.

I agreed.

"Just don't move anythin' around, and don' get into nothing you ain't suppose too.."

I nodded.

A couple of minutes later I left without a word, but I already felt a little better about what went down earlier that day.

* * *

**Yes. There is a femscout. She won't play any part in the story so if you don't like femscout don't worry. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, but it is harder with such a larger cast of characters. **

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, please drop a review and go have yourself a fucking fantastic weekend. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Yeah, I don't have a good excuse for how late this is, I hope people are still reading it. I'm sorry its tardy. **

**Proofread by Shius.**

* * *

**~Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.**

_~T. S. Eliot_

Within a month my team turned into what I could almost sorta maybe call a family. It was after noticing how we put up with each other's shit day after day (some more than others), after noticing how we fought and then forgot it as if it was nothing, and how we worked together to bludgeon the enemy that I thought of them as friends. I realized they were a bit more than friends when one of them (Engie or Heavy) would point out I hadn't eaten in a couple of days, or when one of them (Scout or Demo) would take the time to try to include me in group conversations, when they would care enough to ask for my opinions and thoughts even though most of them wouldn't understand my answer.

That kinda stuff I didn't get in prison, or even before that. In prison we didn't get complimented or teased, we got singled out and tasered. I'll admit, the rest of the guys seemed to be closer to each other than I was to them, but we worked pretty well together considering none of them had ever even seen my face and I hadn't had a real conversation with most of them.

But for some type of almost-family we were pretty fucked up.

I'll never forget the day I woke up to my almost-family making enough sound to wake the dead at three in the morning. Somehow Scout got his foot stuck in a pickle jar and Soldier decided that we needed an immediate meeting on safety training to prevent that from happening in the future and Spy had somehow caught fire (was that from me?) while Demo got sooo drunk and his liver failed and Medic needed to replace it. Sniper accidentally poisoned the coffee and we all had a trip to respawn when we tried it and then we were smoked by the BLUs come daybreak.

I can't decide if that was the funniest or the worst night in Teufort.

...

Sometimes I could hear them talk about me behind my back. I could hear the whispering and it felt like poison. I've had people talk behind my back _all my life._

Why should it feel any different now?

What really got me was when they started talking about my mental health behind my back. It was casual of course; Sniper mentioned how I had been mumbling at air earlier that day to Engie, who kind of seemed like the go-to guy for problems. He scratched his head and muttered something under his breath about it.

Sniper mumbled something back. "I'll mention it to the Doc," Engineer adjusted his hat and walked away, saying hi to me as he passed, like I didn't hear, or like it didn't matter if I heard.

"_I'll mention it to the Doc,"_ not _"I'll mention it to the Pyro."_

If someone had just asked about my rapidly augmenting hallucinations, if someone had just fucking asked "hey Pyro, are you seeing things?" or "hey Pyro, I noticed you're batshit crazy, what's up with that?" I would've told them.

I needed help.

Along with my frustration with the team, I added a new rule to my list. I was past the _no talking to the hallucinations_ rule, I broke it so many times it was nothing but dust and ashes. I replaced it with the _no yelling at the hallucinations _rule. Yes, that needed to be a rule.

I always saw something, be it the greasy fucker_, _the funny candy colored balloon creature, or God forbid my firefighter. The greasy man wouldn't shut up, never. Every movement, every little mess up or thought or twitch he commented on.

"Don't slip sweetheart." "What did I say about butterfingers?" "You would only need one match for this whole place." "You fried him like you fried insert friend's name." "Doll, you can't best anyone from either team." "What, you're whining about that? That's like a splinter. You get shot at all the time."

And when I'd ignore him he'd get louder and more hostile.

"Bitch, I'm talking to you." "Honey, I'm always here." "Slut." "I don't know why you're getting so worked up." "Whore." "You're falling apart, and the funny thing is _I'm not even real." _"You're falling apart my dear, how much time do you have left?"

I could feel my sanity running through my fingers, just out of my grasp.

It got to the point where I'd scream at him to just shut up. Sometimes it worked, usually it didn't. It felt like the only option I had left was to put a gun to my head, but that wouldn't even work due to respawn. Which is good I suppose.

The only peace I got was in my sleep (and even that was awful).

It also made me cranky as hell and edgy. Cranky and edgy are never good things for a person used to burning things to avoid feeling emotions and carries a flamethrower.

These problems followed me into battle as well, even though the hallucinations were less there. I became trigger happy, and though that was fantastic for spy checking, I shot or set my teammates on fire way too often.

They were starting to notice this stuff.

The fighting was always a feverish hell, and over the days it all sort of blurred together into one big battle. Dying became a normal occurrence for me. I died at least four times a day and I started growing numb to the idea of being shot at. I was getting distracted easily, either by real stuff or my own imagination.

I couldn't always remember where I was supposed to be going, or why I was fighting, or what the objective was. Sometimes it was bad enough that I had to stop in the middle of a fight to remember how I got there. When it got really, really bad and my senses were filled with smoke and color, when my head hurt so bad it almost stopped thinking and when the memory gaps were the size of football fields, I'd just follow the balloon creature and forget everything else.

...

I ditched my fear of Sentries. After running into them enough, you grow numb to the idea of dying to them too. I learned that the best way to deal with them is to go around them, hit them with the flamethrower from around a corner or at a safe-ish angle, or charge them and hope you can take care of it before it takes care of you.

They're not as painful as they look because nine times out of ten they'll kill you quickly, that's why I wasn't really afraid of them. They're quick. I was nominated the best guy on the team to distract a sentry for someone else, and the best guy to charge at them for suicide runs. Yipee.

At the end of the day we'd finish and the others would head off to the showers (I wouldn't) and then we'd debate about whose turn it was to cook dinner. It was never my turn to cook, after the first time where I gave everyone bran flakes and lit Scout's bowl on fire, they decided that I wasn't the best choice to cook meals.

Usually Heavy, Spy or Engineer would man up and make something but more often than not we'd find our own meal.

Scout and I would then park in front of the tv and watch the Twilight Zone, or something of that sort. He had a taste for real garbage TV shows, but luckily I did too. He started giving me weird looks, but I couldn't tell what they meant, or if I was making them up. Whenever I would start to notice he would stop.

I put it in the back of my mind.

After that I'd either go seek solitary time (which wasn't very solitary anymore), or go and find Engie and sit in his workshop with him. We usually didn't say anything to each other past hello, but Engineer pinned it down pretty fast that I wasn't the talkative type and the topics I wouldn't even touch were avoided. Engineer had been giving me some looks too. Hard to tell what kind because of his damn goggles, but it bothered me a bit more than Scout's staring.

I asked him about it. "Do I have something on my freaking face" (dry humor) "or are you just staring for the hell of it?"

He set down whatever the hell he was working on and pulled down his goggles to reveal his eyes. He raised an eyebrow. "...Pardon?" His voice seemed oddly cold, but I had been rather rude.

I repeated myself, and made sure to enunciate.

He pretended he couldn't understand me and dodged the question by changing the subject to how Snipers van wasn't working and how he couldn't find the Allen wrenches. Oh fuck no, that wasn't going to slide.

He is the best one on the team when it comes to deciphering what comes out of my mask, he heard me fine. It was the way he had hesitated, and the way he forced eye contact that told me he was lying, and he was damn good at it. Or, maybe, I imagined that too and I was simply full of shit but I really don't think that was the case.

The feeling of being lied to never settled well with me. It's an awful taste in my mouth that no amount of toothpaste will ever wash. I glared at him. It didn't do any good. Nothing showed through the mask. I adjusted myself on the crates I was on and crossed my arms defiantly. I said something.

He raised an eyebrow back.

I huffed.

I don't remember what happened next -memory gap- but it couldn't have been anything groundbreaking because I left and we acted normal the next morning. Like it never happened. I can't prove it ever really did.

On most days, after I'd leave Engie's workshop I'd go to bed. Sometimes I'd play with matches, never anything bigger. Then I'd wake up. And then I'd go fight another fucking day, each one less lucid than the last.

And thus my days at Tuefort fell into a routine.

_**Memory is deceptive because it is colored by today's events.**_

_Albert Einstein_

It was fucking hot. Every day, all day, it was hot.

It was even hotter due to the fact that I carried a fire spitting machine and wore a thick rubber suit. By the noon of every day, if I hadn't died recently I'd be on the brink of a heat stroke. The suit would stick to me in funny places and sweat would drip out of my mask. Sometimes I found it easier and quicker to just send myself through respawn than to find one of Engie's dispensers and sit comatose against it for twenty minutes.

...

The base was empty. As far as I knew, I was the only one in it. I was covering defense while most of the others offense- it was a good day for us. I believe Demo was in the intel room and Engineer might've been in our sewer, but other than that it was just me. I liked that. It gave me a moment to breath, to think.

And I had a lot of things to think about.

I patrolled the hallways quietly, looking for any BLUs but at the same time not _really_ looking. I squirted a bit of fire in a couple of corners for the spy but didn't expect to see him. I expected all BLUs to be hung up on their own defense.

Then I heard it. A shallow faint rhythm. A song, a melancholy melody that seemed so familiar I would be able to hum it myself. I spread a circle of fire around myself, but of course it wasn't a spy. Where was it coming from? I strained my ears.

I couldn't find the source.

For a minute I thought it was coming from inside my skull.

I wandered around the halls a bit. When I found what was making the noise my hands grew clumsy and I nearly dropped my flame thrower. It was the other Pyro, the BLU one. And he (or she, or it) was a mean motherfucker.

I've seen him tear up my team out there, like a dragon would.

Before I continue, I need to tell you something I've noticed. Over the month I'd been at Tuefort I noticed the rivalry between my team and our BLU counterparts. No one talks more trash about BLU's Scout than Scout, no one feels the need to backstab more people than BLU Spy than our Spy, and no one felt the need to outperform the BLU Pyro like me.

But whenever we came face to face I either got my ass handed to me or I chickened out and recruited a teammate. I avoided him. I think he avoided me too.

He (or she or it but I'll call the pyro him) was a bit bigger than me and that allowed him to carry a heavier more powerful flamethrower, and he had more of an 'attack others head on and wail on them till someone falls down' tactic towards fighting, and it worked well.

That tactic didn't work for me.

He was half humming half singing a little melody that most would find joyous but to me only sounded pensive and so brain splittingly familiar that if felt like I at one point knew the whole thing by heart. Like the lyrics were on the tip of my tongue.

The sound lost clarity and echoed through his mask, and he kept humming along, oblivious to my presence.

"..." My heart hammered in my ears like a drum. Blood turned to ice and then began to boil. I breathed adrenaline. I always got like this when I faced the other pyro.

I stared at the other, his back was turned. He didn't notice me, not yet anyway. I did my best to try and sneak up on him, doing my best impression of a spy. My axe was in hand and I had it raised over my head.

I suppose that when you're singing and have a layer of silicone over your ears it's easy to get snuck up on, but even so my plan failed.

I didn't bring the axe down. I could've, but my feet stopped a few paces short and stuck to the floor like glue. Internally I cursed at myself for not taking my chance and ending him. Maybe I cursed at myself out loud because he noticed and whirled around with a feral growl. The humming stopped.

He froze for a second, just as confused as me as to why I hadn't killed him already. I tried to lunge at him with the axe again. Even though my limbs felt heavy and unresponsive just a minute ago, I felt ready to tear him apart. I was lightheaded and I couldn't figure out why.

I suppose he assumed that I hadn't killed him yet because of the song- which was kinda right. Then he asked me either 'you like mooses?' or 'you like music?', I'll assume the latter but man, the mask made it really hard to tell. He had a painted mask.

I swung at him madly. He air blasted me away and I hit the wall. He nailed me with the shotgun and the air left my lungs like it does a popped balloon. Adrenaline kept me from feeling the pain where the shell hit. I took a second to breathe and managed to get back on my feet and shoot a few rounds at him. One hit, and he fell to his knees.

The dragon was down. I remember when I used to be the dragon but the title fit the other pyro so much better.

He spewed a wall of fire at me but hey, that's what I wear the suit for. It didn't touch me and he tagged me with the shotgun one more time as a last effort. I screeched in pain. No one was else around to hear. I managed to finish him off with the ax. He died with a shuddering painful groan.

I looked to the gaping hole in my abdomen where he hit me with the shotgun.

_Damn that hurts like bitch_. I fell over and withered by his corpse as my insides tried to spill out of my gut. It's one of the most painful occurrences I've ever withstood, but I could say that about most accidents in my line of work. At least I never have to deal with them very long.

I was bleeding out. The easiest and most practical thing to do would've been shooting myself in the head.

Instead my mind somehow thought that sitting up would help. I didn't shoot myself. I looked around. Everything was already getting fuzzy, my vision was fading and I was at that phase of dying where everything goes numb. I've learned to like the feeling of numbness.

The other pyro's corpse hadn't been picked up by their respawn yet. Both of our weapons lay scattered across the dirt floor and I tried to identify the difference between our equipment. We had similar axes and nearly identical shotguns, though he also carried a flare gun.

Our flamethrowers were different and as soon as I looked at his, really looked at it, I was overcome with an anger so great I forgot I was dying and reached for it with bloody hands.

God. Fucking. Damn.

I took in the heavy and heavy-burning flame thrower with a dragon shaped nozzle and puked a bit (either from having to remember shit I didn't wanna or because I was dying). I had the blueprints for this very machine hung on the walls in my shed as a teenager. The very same design, right down to the tubing and the dragon teeth. I couldn't forget that. This was _my design. _

How in fucking hell did the other pyro get ahold of it?

I bled some more though I couldn't feel it anymore and didn't care.

I looked to the body and kicked at it weakly as if it would come back to life and tell me. Mumbles even I can't decipher fell out of my mask and the other pyro was picked up by respawn. His flame thrower was too, it disappeared from my hands.

And I died.

...

That night RED was celebrating an extra big win and I was so livid and hung up on the BLU Pyro's flame thrower that I didn't even find celebrating worthwhile.

Demo handed me a beer with a straw. "Maybe ye can squeeze the straw past yer filters." I didn't hear him and set the beer down.

_Who had been in my shed to get that blueprint? _

Engineer picked up his guitar and played while Scout told everyone how he beat in some number of skulls with a bat.

_I was always so careful __about__ who I let in my shed. My parents barely knew what I did in there. _

Sniper cleaned his weapon. Spy offered a few of the guys and me cigarettes before lighting one of his own. I use to be such an addict but I didn't feel my nicotine addiction and turned down the offer.

_It's impossible that it was stolen, my shed was __n__ever robbed__, and__ they would've taken a lot more than crappy blueprints. _

Medic rambled about his days in Germany to Heavy, who had consumed a monstrous amount of alcohol yet seemed fine and completely coherent. Soldier congratulated us on our win, said us newbies pulled through and stammered on and on and on.

_There's only one person who could have them. _

I had to stop and think for a few moments to check if all of this was real. To make sure I wasn't making up memories and extra details. _I could've been hallucinating that whole fucking thing. _

No, no, I'm not that crazy yet. That was real.

Apparently I was speaking my inner thoughts out loud. Demo reprimanded me for speaking to myself (drawing attention to the fact that I was). "Boyo, you've been sooo grumpy lately, stop broodin' off in 'pyroland' and join us, aye? Lighten up lad." He handed me another beer, even though I hadn't touched my first.

There was only one person who had ever seen the inside of my shed, and only one person who could've taken blueprints.

I had to meet the BLU Pyro again.

_**Who do you carry the torch for, my young man? Do you believe in anything? Do you carry it around just to burn things down?**_

_~Brand New_

That night I set the base on fire.

And I think it was on purpose.

I left the little celebration early because I just couldn't take it anymore. Too much noise.

The lock on my door clicked shut, I double checked it just to be sure. The mask came off in seconds and the suit followed. Even nighttime in New Mexico is hot. If felt fantastic to finally get rid of the extra layer.

I went to bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

And then I dreamed of dragons. Of fire that cleansed and raged. Of explosions with screaming and white hot pain and_ burning_. I dreamed of drowning and nasty looks and other things I hadn't dreamed of since I was a kid. I dreamed of my best friend.

"_I'm a monster." I sobbed out. _

_He sighed. "Yeah, well, if you're a monster I probably am too." _

"_..."_

"_I don't care if you're a monster." He pulled me into one of those awkward one armed hugs and ruffled my hair in a big brotherly way. "I also don't care what you look like, that your mother is a bitch, or that you have a slight tendency to curse excessively."_

Such a charming conversation turned into a nightmare I couldn't wake from. The old discussion played in my head like a broken record. How long had it been since I heard my friend's real voice? When I finally pried my eyes open I was standing in front of a wall of pure turbulent fire.

I was close enough I felt the heat dancing across my face.

I didn't have a mask on.

I backed away from the flames and checked over myself. I had my suit on, though it was covered in soot. A flame thrower sat in my hands, the nozzle still smoking and the pilot light was flickering the way it does when I'm out of fuel. My mask wasn't in sight and I was coughing.

What had I done?

In front of me was the RED base burning with the ferocity I knew it would if someone ever dropped a match. The gut wrenching feeling of guilt was overwhelming and it felt as though I was drowning in it.

What if my teammates died? What if I already fried the respawn room? I was so fired.

"Nice job honey." And suddenly he was there, just making matters worse with his knowing smirk and taunting words. The greasy man stood near the flames, but of course he didn't feel the heat. Smoke flowed right threw him. "Your toll's up to ten friends and a father."

I ignored him. It was a lot easier to ignore him when my own art stood in front of me. "Then again, they are trained mercenaries, this wouldn't kill them. They're probably walking around right now looking for you."

"..."

The hallucination lost interest in talking to me and settled with just staring and watching the base burn down with me. My face was painted with shock and his with satisfaction. It made me sick because he was a figment of my imagination-he was me. Inside I was almost proud. I looked at him again and spit.

"You've wanted to set this place on fire sense the first night you came."

If I could kill that fucker again I would. "Shut up."

"Your team's gonna come around and catch sight of that mug of yours, better find your mask to hide behind. "

"...Yeah." I agreed and looked around for it, though I probably left it in my room and my room was nothing more than a burning skeleton of a building made of two by fours.

In the distance I heard someone calling my name. The greasy man disappeared. I considered walking into the fire.

Someone called my name again and this time it was clear to me who it was. A silhouette of a man was running towards me, maybe from about thirty yards away and I looked down to the ground and closed my eyes. I tried to think of what I'd say but my mind drew a blank and when I opened my eyes Engineer was right next to me. He was covered in soot and his trademark helmet and goggles were out of sight. I didn't have my mask.

He looked mad.

He was saying words. I didn't hear them.

He repeated himself. "Did you do this?"

And I nodded my head.

"Damn Smoky..." And we fell silent. I could tell he was holding back everything he wanted to say, and any minute the dam was going to break and questions would spill out.

"..."

"Didn't your mama ever teach you not to play with matches?"

"I'm sorry." I meant it. I hope he knew that.

He cursed. "...Damn it Pyro." I couldn't tell what he was thinking or how he felt.

He looked at me, really looked at me and it occurred to me this was the first time anyone's seen me without a mask on in however long. I felt exposed and I turned my head to look away. My face itched and tingled. The fire roared. Engineer sighed.

I guess I looked just bothered enough by appearance, enough so that he felt the need to say something. "Don't get all coy with me, yer face ain't that bad. I thought you'd be hidin' the deformation of the century under there."

"Yeah."

"Damn it son." He said as he looked to the fire again.

I was so going to be fired.

The flames reflected in Engineers eyes as he watched them. "The team made it out, but we can't afford any more accidents because respawn ain't no more. Everybody's around here, around Snipers van I believe. I went out to search for you."

"Are they okay?"

"The Doc had enough sense to bring his medigun and he's fixin up whatever minor burns the fellas got. You got any?"

I couldn't feel anything fresh so I just shook my head.

"Now the BLU team is parked out front. I'm not sure if they're here to help or to hurt but Scout was swearing up an' down that the BLU Pyro saved his life."

"Sounds like something he would do."

"Who?"

"How long had the base been... burning?"

"Thirty minutes tops. You, you made quite a mess."

"I'm sorry, I know, I know, I just... lost it I suppose."

And then we spent our time in silence for a bit. And when Engie started walking my feet followed. "I saw yer mask round here," he announced and within minutes he was handing me a char covered gasmask with a broken filter that was half covered by lumber. I must've deserted it when the filters broke. I put it on and we continued onward.

It was harder to breath with it but not impossible. I preferred slightly hindered breathing over showing my face.

I closed my eyes for a minute and remembered just how tired and exhausted I was. My flame thrower suddenly felt so heavy, way heavier than I remember, and suddenly we were met by the rest of the team and we were by Sniper's van, a safe distance away from the still smoldering base. All the van's doors were open and the other seven members sat within or outside it.

And they started talking.

I couldn't tell what they were talking about for the life of me. Scout showed some joy that I was alive, apparently they couldn't find me and thought I was trapped in there for a bit. I ignored Scout because his voice really was on more of the annoying side.

And I was dizzy. I slid to the ground against the van and tried to think of what I would do.

And they continued talking. I realized they were talking to me when Demo knelt down and handed me a water bottle with a straw. "You don't sound too good lad." I was breathing heavy.

The straw was easy to manipulate through the broken filters and the water felt nice for my throat. I silently thanked Demo.

Spy, who was only half-clad in his usual suit, blew on a cig and turned to me with tired eyes. "Did you do this?"

And everyone got real quiet. I slurped water with the straw.

And everyone stayed silent. I've always loved silence but here it was just deafening. Deafening. Overbearing. I had to break it. "I lit the fire."

"You tried to kill us, non?" A few of the guys tried to butt in. They didn't think I would try to do that.

"I didn't wanna hurt anybody. "

**_~A lie told often enough becomes the truth._**

_~Vladimir Lenin_

Twenty minutes later and we had already deducted that I was screwed. RED would come to pick us up soon, and they would demand to know what happened. They would be told. And I would be fired. The thing is, from the little snippets of conversation I cared enough to pick up, I was led to believe that getting fired was a little more than what it sounded.

How do you fire a sociopathic homicidal pyromaniac that's an ex-mercenary? With a bullet to the brain.

I knew it and most of the guys knew it too.

And they cared. They kept on talking, and talking, and talking and sometimes to me. I didn't answer. I could tell by the way sweat stuck to all their faces and by the way Demo wasn't getting drunk on Sniper's emergency supply of booze that they were nervous. They had nothing to be nervous for, they didn't do anything wrong. They were nervous for me.

Heavy's thundering voice interrupted all others and demanded attention. "We must get story together. RED will be here soon."

"Yes," Medic began. "Lets see, vhat shall we say zhis time?"

I looked to him. "Hmmm?"

"We could say we left a burner on." Sniper piped up.

Scout, who had been silent for the first time in his life till now, spoke up. "Fellas, what're ya sayin?"

"What do you think. We come up with lie." Heavy said as if it was plain as day.

"You know what RED could do to Pyro if they find out the truth? We'd all suffer. It's easier this way boy, we jus' gotta keep the fib straight between all of us."

"Wait, we're actually gonna like, really make a cover story up?"

"No- we're going to plan a thanksgiving with your mozher. What do you think we're doing?" Spy snapped back sarcastically. You could see the stress cloaking him.

"Alright, cool, just uh, you old farts bettah be good at lying, I'm a pro, I got seven brothers that taught me but-"

"Shut up and we'll get this done in time."

If there was ever doubt in my almost-family, it dissipated now.

...

"Okay, one more time, this is the story. It started in the laborer's workplace," Spy eyed us all as we huddled around Sniper's little table that we brought outside of the van. He blew a puff of smoke. "Bushman, Engineer and I were playing cards."

"I was workin on getting Scout an' Pyro drunk." Demo stated, clearly happy with his role.

"I was with doktor helping with experiment, then we go to bed."

I said something incoherent to make it look like I was contributing.

"I was asleep." Soldier stated proudly as if it was the most important part, and he probably thought so.

"We were passed out." Scout said, speaking for the both of us.

"An' the best I can figure, it was an old teleporter. Who knows, maybe if we play it right they'll send some money to replace some of our machines."

"Yes well, we'll be lucky enough to pull this off laborer, don't aim higher or we'll miss."

The story was hardly believable, most improbable, and completely asinine but I was praying it would work. It simply _had_ to work, I couldn't be fired now. When only hours earlier I found out about the other Pyro, and I needed to see him.

"Don't be so tense son." Soldier slapped my shoulder, "I've done this twice by now."

* * *

**If you are completely lost when they started talking about the BLU Pyro's flamethrower, than I suggest you skim over chapter five again. **

**Thanks for reading. Please drop me your opinion of this chapter and have a wonderful weekend. **


	10. Chapter 10

**I did not have a computer for a long time. I do now. Updates will now be more regular. I hope people are still reading. **

* * *

_**~If you are going through hell, keep going.**_

_~Winston Churchill_

Back at RED headquarters they gave me a new, non-broken gas mask. It was exactly like the one before, black and shiny, identical to the faded print of the front. It still managed to remind me that I had lost my first gas mask in the fire, the one that the firefighter had given me. Even though I had upgraded masks, I still loved the old one. It had some sort sentimental value. I wasn't a sentimental person, but I kinda missed it. It was the only physical thing I had left from the firefighter.

Not that it matters anymore. I no longer need it. Even if I did need it, mourning over the mask would've been pointless.

Everyone lost something in the fire. Anything they couldn't grab on their way out of the burning base was now destroyed. Heavy grabbed Sasha, Medic his medigun, Soldier his helmet, Spy grabbed some of his more expensive toys, Sniper had most of his stuff in his van, Engie had nothing; but he had enough sense to move the pickup truck farther away from the base so it didn't catch too. Scout only had his dogtags, but he was complaining about his bats and Demo just didn't seem to care about anything he left.

If I wasn't so torn up and if I wasn't muttering apologies under my mask repeatedly I'm sure my team would've had some words with me. They didn't say much but their stares were worth a thousand fucking words.

All my life people have stared. And never in my life has it bugged me so much.

I couldn't figure out why it bugged me so much, when I've been treated ten times worse.

When it came down to questioning time we kept the story straight between the nine of us. How believable it was I don't know, but if Miss Pauling didn't believe the story it didn't show. However, she did clarify that I wasn't getting my new ID or a raise anytime soon. That was fine, I could wait.

After a day and a half the team and I were released from headquarters.

And after that day and a half I realized I didn't have anywhere to go. I didn't have a home. My face looked like it had been run over by a train. I hadn't worked up enough money to purchase a house, and before I could do that I needed a new identity anyway. Retailers wouldn't wanna sell to America's most notorious _dead _arsonist.

When I walked out to RED's parking lot, I realized just how stranded I was. "Well fuck."

I thought about it a bit, and decided that being homeless again wouldn't be too bad. I was homeless all the while when on the run, doing that again couldn't be hard.

I watched Medic and Heavy jump on a bus, presumably to an airport. They were going to tour Germany for a bit if I remember right.

Scout was taking a train home. He passed me in the parking lot, smiling like a dope. He was a lot happier than he usually was, I bet getting to go home played a big part in his mood. He's easier to talk to when he's not grumpy or complaining about respawn effects. I thought of something to say to him, cause I wanted to say something. I guess I kinda just followed him to the end of the lot (I space out a lot), and he asked "Hey Pyro, ya got a place to stay? Like, I don't got no room, but my ma has this thing about friends on the street and our attic-"

"No, I'm good."

"Yo, Mumbles you're mumbling." The mask itched.

"Bye Scout." There was no way in hell I would stay with Scout.

"Yeah, alright, bye man. Take care of yourself. See ya in like, soon, alright?"

"Mhmmm."

I waited at the edge of the lot as Demo left with Sniper in his crummy van. I must've known someone who had that van, it's pretty freaking familiar. They waved to me and left, looking back in the rear view mirror a couple times to many. They stared. I scoffed. They weren't going home. Home was just too far away for Sniper and Demo was just along for the ride. They were gonna travel the country for a couple weeks before RED contacted them again. If I asked they probably would've let me come with.

I didn't notice Spy leave.

I only noticed Soldier leave when he set a hand on my shoulder and said I was a good soldier. I don't know why he said it.

He had said that a couple of times since the accident. He never gave me those judgmental looks. Not really, he gave the usual 'raging soldier' stares, but those were easy to deal with. Soldier drove away on his own, with a salute. I was almost surprised he had a drivers license, let alone a high end Cadillac. The back seats were filled with rockets and a stuffed raccoon if it helps you picture it better.

I always liked Soldier. We were opposites when it came to just about everything but you could always tell what he was thinking.

I think I spaced out again.

Engineer left last. He packed a bunch of boxes into the back of that pickup truck and drove off. He waved. I stared at the bags at my toes and let a sigh slip from my lips.

The greasy man appeared to my left. Smirking. Staring. Judging. I didn't look at him, but at this point I didn't need to. With a voice as smooth as a radio host's he said, "Don't tell me you thought he would stop for you and take you away like in a damned disney movie."

The urge to argue with him was hard to resist. "No," I said as if I were spitting slugs at him.

"Well expressed, hun. You have a way with words."

I hate his sarcasm. "Mhhhmm."

I closed my eyes and shook my head as if that would clear him from my mind. Him and his stupid condescending words. I kept my eyes closed for a second longer than necessary to prepare myself for the fact that he would still be there when I opened them.

"Oh look sweetheart, he's coming back."

Sure enough, the truck was making its way back. I must've looked really sorry in the rear view mirror. I blinked and it was in front of me. Engie leaned over and opened the passenger door. He sighed the sigh of a guy who was used to going the extra mile. "Need a ride little buddy?"

"Look, how generous. Not many men invite stray animals into their passenger seats." I whispered a fuck you under my breath and sent Engie a thumbs up. I straightened my mask as if that would make me look more presentable. Straightening my mask had become the equivalent of brushing hair behind my ear; I used to do that when I had hair longer than a couple inches.

There was barely any room in the truck bed for my bags.

I hopped into the passenger seat and almost scooted to the middle to make room for the greasy man. I forget he's just in my head a bit too often. The both of us, just Engineer and I, rode away.

_..._

Driving is a comfortable thing for me. I like car rides, always have. I also like quiet. The car was not quiet. Engineer has literally the worst taste in music. Country.

For three straight hours the radio in the truck blared country and western music at me, and as it rolled into the fourth hour I retorted "You listen to utter garbage, you know that?"

He was surprised I spoke up. After four hours of no talking you think I'd keep it that way. "Gonna have to repeat that son, can't hear a damn thing you're sayin'- in fact, I've seen your face already, take off that mask because we have a lot talk about." He turned down the radio.

I ignored him. I didn't wanna talk.

"Damn it Pyro, I don't know what to do with you- burning down the entire base, acting funny as hell for as long as I've known you... You're, you're sick and we need to talk."

"Talk about what?" As if I didn't know.

"Well for starters, why the hell you burnt the damn base down!"

This is what I'd been wanting for months. For help, for someone to ask what was wrong. For a chance to fix it. I was getting what I wanted and flushing it away. "Fuck you."

"That mouth of yours too. You gotta clean up your act son."

I pretty much growled at him. I regret it too.

He pulled over to the curb of the road, put the car in park and turned to me with one of those daring looks - the kind that dare you to step over the line. Though I wasn't sure where the line was, and even if I did I wouldn't have stopped there.

"My mouth is fine, old man." I said a bit more than that, stupid things, but as I kept on talking my voice got higher and my hands shook.

I was approaching that fucking line and his voice, way too calm, was letting me know. "Now, _son_, it ain't fine and neither is the rest of you."

"Fuck you."

"You got anything else to say?"

I gave him the middle finger before coming up with something more clever. "Yeah,-"

It was too late. I already crossed that invisible line. "Then say it like a man -or whatever- and take the damn mask off. No more hiding behind it. Speak so I don't have to guess on every damn word that falls out of that foul mouth."

I glared at him. Didn't do much good. "I don't wanna. Mind your own fucking business."

Engie gave up and pulled the truck back on the road.

And then we stopped talking. Two minutes later the music was back on.

_..._

Eventually, when it was dark and little polka dots of lights lit of the cities we passed on the highway, I found it in me to apologize. "Sorry." My words weren't meaningful or heartfelt, but I couldn't say anything like that so I hoped it was good enough. I tried to take off the mask as well, but when my fingers touched it they pretty much quit all together. My face itched; it itched _so_ much lately.

It took a moment for Engineer to answer, and when he did I almost felt bad for saying anything at all. He sounded fatigued. "Alright little buddy."

I waited for him to say more. He waited too long to continue.

"When we get back to the base I'm going to sit you front of the doc and see what he can do. He ain't some psychologist but he may be able to help."

I've heard very similar words when I was a kid. "By help do you mean stuff shit loads of pills down my throat?"

"Hmm?"

"That probably would help, anyway. Anything would."

"Uhh, alright then." I hate repeating myself so I didn't.

I flicked at a lighter I hadn't realized I had hidden in my pocket till now. Engineer fidgeted. "And another thing Pyro, where am I dropping you off?"

Oh.

"I hope you don't mind, I, I'm not really comfortable with anyone-"

"Yeah, I get it. You don't want me to set your house on fire and shit."

"I hope you understand."

"I just said I did."

_**~No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it's only a question of degree.**_

_~W. C. Fields_

I had him drop me off at some motel and I stayed there for four and a half weeks. It was a cheap no-questions-asked type place, and it wasn't too bad. I got away with wearing a mask whenever I went out, but of course, people stared and pointed. I didn't go out much.

Out of the four and a half weeks of break, I remember a whopping two of them.

The memory gaps hadn't ever been that long. I think.

...

When the air got a bit frosty -frosty for Texas anyway- I got a letter from RED, and two days later was catching a train to a place called the Well. The train stopped in the battlefield, so no more of that "having to be picked up in the middle of a desert" bullshit. In fact, The Well wasn't in the desert at all. It was more north, north enough that it stays at a nice fall temperature of 50-60 and has green hills outside of the area.

Well was better than Tuefort.

And it was at_ least_ 35% less flammable.

A couple of days before the fighting began I went to see the medic, like Engineer requested. I didn't need him to force me to do it either. I wasn't a fucking child.

I was given the "I vill try to help, but Pyro please understand I'm not certified in this field blah blah blah" talk. And of course, he told me "nothing has to leave this room, but with your permission I would like to tell Herr Engineer-"

"I don't need him to play parent for me. I'm in my freaking twenties, okay?"

He raised an eyebrow. Even if he didn't know what I was saying, he got my tone. He then said a bit too nicely for a guy who was just yelled at, "Pyro, he simply seems the most willing to help you. I was simply going to tell him about any medication you are appointed so he can remind you to take it. I see that is not going to be an option now." I expected him to mutter verrückt or Schwein of dummkof or whatever the hell else he calls us under his breath. He didn't.

"Oh."

"Of course," he picked up a bird that sat on the exam table as delicately as one would a small child, and put it in a cage. "You may not be given anything. If I can't think of anything that may help, then you will have to see a professional."

"Ok."

"Engineer has confronted me about some concerns and I've noticed many myself, but I vould like to hear everything in your words, Pyro. If you vere to take zhe mask off, ve could get started."

The whole appointment in Well's crappy infirmary lasted maybe thirty minutes, but a lot of that was sitting awkwardly and working up the courage to take my mask off. Medic had a lot of patience - patience he didn't have the last time I saw him for an appointment. It bugged me.

It was too out of character for him.

Yeah, people who are trying to help the mentally ill are generally a bit nicer to them and all that shit, but it's a fake kindness. Plastic. It's the same plastic kindness that defined every doctor I've seen since I was a child, right back to the very first one I ever saw with a fake wig and fake smile.

Once the mask came off I ended up telling Medic about my most common hallucination; the greasy mother fucker I ran into at 15. I told Medic that I saw him all the time, and that I _hated_ it. I told him about the memory gaps and blurry conception of time. I told him about my loathing of water.

I told him about my blueprints. I told him a bit about my firefighter, how he died, how I hallucinated, and how he's back. I told more than I should've.

He nodded along. At the end he dismissed me, said he had some calls to make. A day later he called me back in and prescribed to me a rainbow of different pills.

_**Sometimes I say the medication is even tougher than the illness.**_

_~Sanya Richards-Ross_

The next day I felt weird. It was lunch time and I had taken my pills hours ago, and I just kinda sat in a chair in the kitchen and fiddled with a lighter. It was weird. I wasn't hungry. Or tired. Or thirsty. Or even anxious. That wasn't a new thing, but I couldn't help but feel like maybe I should be hungry or thirsty or worried or something. I hadn't eaten since the day before and I didn't sleep that night and the battle was starting tomorrow. I should've been worried about it, but no.

It was weird but I couldn't tell why. I forgot to eat and what not_ all the time._

I'd been sitting in that damn chair for hours and I didn't even feel bored. When Demo came in for the fourth time that hour to rummage through the fridge again he noticed something was up. He got out leftover mysterious meat and said "are ya bloody defective? Ye haven't moved all day, lad." He got me a cup of water and a straw and waved a hand in front of my mask. "Anyone in there?"

I took the water but there wasn't any way to squeeze it into my mask filters. "Yeah."

"...Take care of yourself, lad."

"Demo, are we friends?" I don't know why I said it. Like I said, I felt fucking weird.

"Hmm? Oh, uh, yeah lad. We all be friends."

He walked away and muttered something about 'pyroland.'

And then I realized something. I was always this weird. The drugs weren't messing me up. I was messing me up.

I took the water and went back to my room.

I didn't see a thing that day, so I knew the drugs were working, but that night I dreamed. Really lucid dreaming too. I dreamt of my mother and my Firefighter.

I decided that sleep wasn't worth the dreams and got up to go wander around the base. Maybe I'd visit Engie's workshop and see if he's still awake. He had started turning on his radio to some station that tells short pulp fiction stories, he says he likes them for background noise.

I liked them. It took some effort to put the suit and mask on. Then I went to the cafeteria for a glass of water. Just outside of the cafeteria was the hallway which leads out of the living quarters and into the rest of the base, which was to be used when fighting. The door into the rest of the base was open so I closed it.

Heavy has a hard enough time squeezing through all the doors so sometimes he forgets to shut them. Not a big deal.

When I arrived at the workshop the lights were off. I went in anyway because, by luck, the doors weren't locked. Engineer always locked it when he left - he hated the idea of anyone, even me, inside his workshop when he wasn't there. I get it, and I would do the same.

Well's workshop was a bit different than Tuefort's. The walls were painted a shale color and lined with posters that could've been fifty years old, the floor was brick, and the only window had not blinds, but bars over it. It was homey enough for me. I wandered over to a shelf and rummaged around for something to read. I found something about the mexican-american war that looked half interesting and tried to read it. Reading always was too mundane to me, but hey, it was better than nothing. Better than sleep.

Five minutes in I got bored and debated whether or not to turn on the radio. But eventually I decided that someone might hear me, and then it'd be weird to have to explain what I was doing in Engie's workshop in the middle of the night.

When I was about to leave I found something to make me stay. One of the doors to a desk was open, only barely, but enough for me to notice. I only really noticed because of a paper that sat inside. I looked in. It was a blueprint. They were way different than any I ever made on my own, way more complicated and coded. I put them back and shut the drawer.

I was bored but too scared and anxious to sleep. Those kinds of feelings were open doors for hallucinations. Mainly the Greasy Man, but sometimes the little candy-colored horse too. I didn't see jack-shit.

And that was more than fine with me. If the medication were to mess with my sleep but make me sane, I'd take it. Eventually I got bored of the workshop and decided to go back to my quarters.

On the way back to my room I took the time to appreciate how many smoke detectors the base had. Someone had been thinking of me.

And then I smelled smoke. Not the smoke you get when someone's burning something, the kind you get when someone has a cigarette. Not a cigar, definitely a cigarette. _'I could go for one of those.'_

And then I felt weird again. The same kind of weird I felt earlier before I discovered it was all in my head. It was a nauseous weird. I started walking through the living quarters of the base very slowly, but I didn't yet know what I was looking for.

Why Engineer's door was unlocked. Why a drawer with his own blueprints was open for just anyone to flipping see. Why the door to our domestic quarters was wide fucking open.

I was feeling beyond weird. Spooked maybe, the fight or flight part of my brain flicked on and off, even though there was nothing there to fight or to run from.

I felt straight up fucking murderous when I heard a spy de-cloak. I swung around instinctively, even though the sound didn't come from right behind me. It wasn't close at all, but I was trained to flip my shit when I heard that particular sound. I ran past the cafeteria and into the battlements room, grabbing my flamethrower and filling it with fuel with shaky hands.

Shit shit shit shit shit, spy in the base. I ran around the domestic quarters of the base five times, having to refuel four. On the fourth lap in the battlements I heard the sound of a sapper and I wondered what in the hell the spy was doing.

I didn't even take into consideration that it could've been our own spy.

The noise came from the respawn room. I scorched the walls looking for that spy but nothing was there.

Why was he in the respawn room? Why dear god there was so much stuff for a spy to mess up in a respawn room and in the resupply room, there was a reason spy's aren't allowed to fuck around in there.

Shit shit shit shit shit. In a split decision I decided to get everybody up. Loudly. They were not pleased. I couldn't get any good explanation out in time either. They took one look at the scorch marks on the walls and the flamethrower in my hand. They thought I tried to burn down the base again. Yeah. I can't blame them. They all had some words. At the same time. And I just couldn't explain myself. Couldn't squeeze in any words.

I felt small. Ashamed.

Medic called me into the infirmary. Engineer and Demo and Scout tried to follow. Medic sent Demo and Scout away. Good. I couldn't deal with too many people at once. One more and I would've popped.

"I take it zhe medicine isn't vorking."

"I thought he shoved antipsychotics down yer throat so this wouldn't happen."

"They worked fine, great even-"

"Sure."

"Damn it Engineer let me talk."

"Can't here a word yer sayin'."

"There was a spy in the base."

"Bullshit."

"Herr engineer-"

"No. This is downright-"

I interrupted him and tried to explain. When I got to the part about going into Engie's workshop and looking in a drawer he snapped. Privacy. Childish behavior. Invasion of space. Psychotic. Blah Blah Blah.

Engineer left mad. Can't blame him, my story really didn't look too good. It was just like when I pissed him off weeks earlier in the car.

Before I left and tried to squeeze anymore sleep out of the night (as if I could), Medic told me not to worry. The medication might need several more days to balance out. We wouldn't really know if it's working or not in such few days.

Hallucinations are still normal. Drugs don't work like a switch.

When I left the infirmary I believed him. I imagined the whole thing.

'_I'm still batshit insane.'_

_..._

The next day was when the fighting began and my new medication was really put to the test.

I babysat Engie and his sentry for a bit and wandered about our Intel room. He didn't really look at me. Or smile. Or anything really. He was still mad from the night before.

I didn't think anyone in the base would ever treat me the same again, but at the same time I wasn't freaking out about it. I just didn't feel much on the matter. I kept myself distracted with other thoughts. Thinking pleasant thoughts was easier than it used to be.

I examined the Well's intel room while I could. It was big, bigger than Teufort's by a big deal and there were several more corners to hide in. I sprayed fire on every one, and every time I turned around and tried to walk off it still felt like something was hiding there. Behind me.

And I turned with a spurt of fire. Nothing. Engie rose from his spot behind his sentry and I started walking back to refill my flame thrower before I wandered off. Four steps and I thought someone was behind me. I whirled around and sprayed more fire. Nothing.

"What the hell are you doin' down there?" Engie shouted from above. His voice echoed through the room. I walked to him a couple of steps so I wouldn't have had to yell as loud. My footsteps echoed.

He talked before I could say anything. "Yer jumpier than a pig in slaughter season. Scaring yourself with your own footsteps huh?" He let out a couple of brisk laughs. They were good-natured, but it took me a moment to get it.

I realized my footsteps were echoing. I scoffed at myself for a split second- not something I can always do, and waved Engineer off.

I walked away. Everything would be okay.

…

I ran into the other demo and lost a whole fucking arm. I kinda just flopped to the ground and decided to let myself bleed out (it wouldn't take long). When I closed my eyes I thought of my firefighter. Medic came around before I died and managed to bring me back. I gave him a thumbs up and ran off.

Well wasn't bad. The weather was nice. I decided I could grow used toit. I set off on offense and looked for the other pyro.

...

Towards the end of the day I found him. Navigating the courtyard between our bases, peppered in blood and gore. None of it was his own. I watched as he gunned down our scout and stuck and axe in his head.

The scout fell onto the train tracks. It often takes a while for respawn to pick up the bodies.

I stood twenty yards away, frozen, and even then could hear his breath heave through the mask. We watched each other for a minute before he wiped some scout off his axe and picked up his flame thrower. The pilot light flickered the way they do when they were almost out of gas. Mine did the same thing.

A combination of words fell out of his mask, sounding like a growl. Our last encounter probably fresh on his mind.

He didn't charge. He kinda just froze.

And so I begun to walk to him, stepping on the train tracks. Slow. Non-threatening.

And still we didn't attack each other. I said his name, not that he could tell, but he tilted his head sideways as if to say 'what?' God this was fucking difficult. I tried to press myself to say something. _Anything. _God I was fucking this up. I expected him to lunge forward and put an axe in my head at any second, that's what I would've done before I discovered who he was. My lips were glued.

'_Say something you piece of shit.'_

He beat me to it."Mhphhhhh?" It was hard to believe I sounded like that too.

I didn't know what he said or how to reply. So I didn't. Instead I punched him. Then I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed before he could swing the ax to my face or put a flare in my gut. Then I punched him again and again till I was beating him into the ground.

I was yelling at him the whole time. "You're supposed to be dead. Jackass. I thought you were fucking dead. I've gone for years..." He pushed me off of him and hit my face before reaching for one of the weapons lying on the ground. My face hurt. The mask cracked against my cheekbones and the plastic dug into my skin. More words choked out my throat before I could stop them. "I've gone for years thinking... you were dead. You, you know how fucked up I am?"

He lunged for his flame thrower but I kicked it away before his fingers could catch it. One of the dragon's teeth pierced my boot. He smacked me another good one and I could feel blood spill through my nostrils. Sucker could hit. I'd never seen him in a fistfight before.

He got me again but on a stroke of luck he tripped and I was able to push him down and hit him again. Gas masks aren't as fleshy as faces. My knuckles hurt. I was breathing like a goddamn horse and he was only breathing half as hard through dented filters.

"After all this shit... all this time... You've been fucking alive."

He couldn't have had any idea what I was saying but I mumbled on anyway. When I slugged him once more his mask cracked and I saw it fit to just tear it off. Most of it anyway. He snarled and with the mask off his voice felt deeper and raspy and familiar.

Red hair was plastered to his head with sweat and twisted marred skin engulfed the right half of his face. His eyes contained an anger I never thought I'd see directed at me. His nose was bloody too.

He had a lopsided scowl. I was looking at the face of my firefighter, touched by a couple years, and he was pissed. He pushed back and swung at my face, no doubt going for my mask like I did his.

It fucking hurt. My filter was digging into my skin hard enough to draw blood and my jaw was ready to crack.

He's a bit bigger. Built more like Soldier while I'm built closer to Scout. I'd probably been in more fistfights than him, but it didn't do me any damn good when he threw me off of him and onto my back, my spine bent over the train rail. He was on me in seconds, but instead of reaching for an axe or one of our shotguns laying on the ground he rammed his fist into my face again. The glass over my eye broke.

I hoped someone - from either team - would come in to end me or him so this wouldn't need to continue. No. No one did.

Instead of breaking my mask over my face like I did his he just tore mine off. He threw it. Our unmasked eyes met for the first time in years.

Yeah. This had to be a big shock for him too. I was supposed to be six feet under. Executed.

The violence stopped immediately, like someone flipped a switch. His eyes went real wide and then dull. His snarl turned into disbelief then maybe panic. He muttered something. I didn't hear it. I spit a glob of blood in his face. Don't know why, just kinda habit I suppose. He didn't bother to wipe it off, his face was already a mess. He didn't get up yet. He was frozen.

"..." He ran a thumb over the scarring on the left side of my face as if to check if it was really there. If it was really me.

We took no more than three seconds to catch our breath before a train came and hit us both.

This time death didn't feel quite right.

...

I respawned with a slightly dented mask and a pierced boot. The headache came soon after, along with a nose that didn't really hurt, but felt wet with something that definitely wasn't snot. I think it took a moment for me to identify that I was alive. It took me another moment to realize that everyone was there. Everyone was either in the respawn room or in the doorway. They all had some hollow look on their face, and they were staring at me without words. God I hate the staring. After a night like last night, it was expected, but this was different.

They weren't ready for battle. Half of them weren't wearing any gear at all. No weapons. They looked sad. Shocked.

"…Jesus shit man, you scared us." Scout was the first one to talk.

Sniper spoke up. "Thought you were gone for good at this point."

"Oui."

"What?"

No answer. I love it when people don't answer me.

Engineer, who looked more tired than anything else, tired beyond his years, kneeled by the wall with various tools at his feet. A panel of the wall was removed. Wires poked out. He was working on the respawn machine and by the sweat lining his brow and under his arms you could tell he was having one hell of a tough time with it.

Medic came over to me in three large steps and looked like he wanted to strip and study me right there as if I was a specimen in a science class.

"What the fuck is going on?"

"Pyro, man..."

Soldier started, "Private! You have been AWOL for-"

Heavy shushed him while he spoke. "Pyro was dead."

Yeah. That's so fucking helpful. That only happens a hundred times a week. "Why- what the hell are you staring at!?"

"The fight ended hours ago." Spy stated.

"You've been caught up in respawn for four hours, Pyro. You were _gone,_ we couldn't fix it and we thought you were really gone. It just... glitched."

My blood ran so cold it turned to ice. The hair on the back of my neck didn't just stand up - it jumped.

_The noise came from the respawn room. Why was he in the respawn room. Why dear god there was so much stuff for a spy to mess up in a respawn room and in the resupply room._

It didn't just glitch.

"I've known since midday that it vasn't vorking right, when I died it took almost an hour. I suppose the vord didn't reach you in time..."

"We've been hiding in base nearly all day. Major defense. We didn't want to take risks."

Engineer got up and slapped his hand over my back. I guess we were on good terms again. "I've been working like a dog four hours to see if I could fix that damn thing. I was worried you weren't comin' out."

"Glad you're safe."

My throat was hoarse but not sore. "Yeah..." My face hurt.

"Someone go inform the administrator of the situation."

My head pounded.

"Oi got it."

I brushed my hand against my leg. It stung. My knuckles were still bruised. Respawn didn't fix much for me. Lucky it fixed me at all I suppose. My head was starting to feel thicker and thicker - like it would after any normal fistfight. As the seconds droned on I felt like I had just taken the beating of a lifetime. I didn't even ask Medic to fix me up with his medigun, even though I needed it.

I dismissed myself quickly after I realized I wouldn't be able to stand much longer. Took my medicine. Shed the suit and went to bed.

_…_

I dreamed of the greasy man from all those years ago.

I dreamed my mother. Of my father.

I dreamed of the gas station blowing up. Of the burn clinic. Of the first time I saw my best friends face, and the last. I thought up every memorable conversation we had and every stupid trip to the diner we took.

And then I didn't dream.

* * *

**Sorry for how long this took to update, and thanks for those who are reading. Really. Have a fantastic day. **


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